yyri 

^    Q  JOHU.  O    i 


->^.^ 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 

by 

FRIENDS  OF  HIE  LIBRARY 


Capt.    and  Mrs.    A.    W,    Bo 


rsum 


donor 


■i^^i^U^JU  '6J^ / y^p,t^;JU'*-*-UiiU/  i>'-  CfUrU^ti^  *-  d«^ 


■JJil 


'/  will  krep  this,  madam,  as  a  mcm;nto"  {see  page  yj). 
(From  drawing  by  Alice  Barber  Stephens.) 


JOHN  HALIFAX 

GENTLEMAN 


BY 

MISS   MULOCK 

"  And  thus  he  bore,  without  abuse. 
The  grand  old  name  of  Gentleman." 

— Tennyson's  In  Memoriam. 


NEW    YORK 

THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL   &    CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTEK  I. 

"  Get  out  o'  Mr,  Fletcher's  road,  ye  idle,  lounging, 
little—" 

"  Vagabond,"  I  think  the  woman  (Sally  Watkins,  once 
my  nurse),  was  going  to  say,  but  she  changed  her  mind. 

My  father  and  I  both  glanced  round,  surprised  at  her 
unusual  reticence  of  epithets  ;  but  when  the  lad  addressed 
turned,  fixed  his  eyes  on  each  of  us  for  a  moment,  and 
made  way  for  us,  we  ceased  to  Avonder.  Ragged,  muddy, 
and  miserable  as  he  was,  the  poor  boy  looked  anything  Itut 
a  '^vagabond." 

'^  Thee  need  not  go  into  the  wet,  my  lad.  Keep  close 
to  the  wall,  and  there  will  be  shelter  enough  both  for  us 
and  thee,"  said  my  father,  as  he  pulled  my  little  hand- 
carriage  into  the  alley,  under  cover,  from  the  pelting  rain. 
The  lad,  with  a  grateful  look,  put  out  a  hand  likewise,  and 
pushed  me  further  in,  A  strong  hand  it  was — roughened 
and  browned  with  labor — though  he  was  scarcely  as  old  as 
I.  What  would  I  not  have  given  to  have  been  so  stalwart 
and  so  tall  ! 

Sally  called  from  her  house-door,  "Wouldn't  Master 
Phineas  come  in  and  sit  by  the  fire  a  bit  ?  " — But  it  was 
atways  a  trouble  to  me  to  move,  or  walk  ;  and  I  liked  stay- 
ing at  the  mouth  of  the  alley,  watching  the  autumnal 
shower  come  sweeping  down  the  street ;  besides,  I  wanted 
to  look  again  at  the  stranger-lad. 

He  had  scarcely  stirred,  but  remained  leaning  against 
the  wall— either  through  weariness,  or  in  order  to  be  out  of 

1 


2  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

our  way.  He  took  little  or  no  notice  of  us,  but  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  pavement — for  we  actually  boasted  pave- 
ment in  the  High  Street  of  our  town  of  Norton  Bury — 
watching  the  eddying  rain-drops,  which,  each  ag  it  fell, 
threw  up  a  little  mist  of  spray.  It  was  a  serious,  haggard 
face  for  a  boy  of  only  fourteen  or  so.  Let  me  call  it  up 
before  me — I  can  easily,  even  after  more  than  fifty  years. 

Brown  eyes,  deep-sunken,  with  strongly-marked  brows, 
a  nose  like  most  other  Saxon  noses,  nothing  particular  ; 
lips  well-shaped,  lying  one  upon  the  other,  firm  and  close  ; 
a  square,  sharjoly  outlined,  resolute  chin,  of  that  type 
which  gives  character  and  determination  to  the  whole  phys- 
iognomy, and  without  Avhich,  in  the  fairest  features,  as  in 
the  best  dispositions,  one  is  always  conscious  of  a  certain 
want. 

As  I  have  stated,  in  person  the  lad  was  tall,  and  strongly- 
built  ;  and  I.  poor  puny  wretcli  !  so  reverenced  physical 
strength.  Everything  in  him  seemed  to  indicate  that  which 
I  had  not :  his  muscular  limbs,  his  square,  broad  shoulders, 
his  healthy  cheek,  though  it  was  sharp  and  thin — even  to 
his  crisp  curls  of  bright  thick  hair. 

Thus  he  stood,  principal  figure  in  a  picture  which  is  even 
yet  as  clear  to  me  as  yesterday — the  narrow,  dirty  alley 
leading  out  of  the  High  Street,  yet  .showing  a  glimmer. of 
green  field  at  the  farther  end;  the  open  house-doors  on 
either  side,  through  which  came  the  drowsy  burr  of  many  a 
stocking-loom,  the  j)rattle  of  children  paddling  in  the  gut- 
ter, and  sailing  thereon  a  fleet  of  potato  parings.  In  front, 
the  High  Street,  Avith  the  mayor's  house  opposite,  por- 
ticoed  and  grand  ;  and  beyond,  just  where  the  rain-clouds 
were  breaking,  rose  up  out  of  a  nest  of  trees,  the  square 
tower  of  our  ancient  abbey — Norton  Bury's  boast  and 
pride.  On  it,  from  a  break  in  the  clouds,  came  a  sudden 
stream  of  light.  The  stranger-lad  lifted  up  his  head  to 
look  at  it. 

''  The  rain  will  be  over  soon,"  I  said,  but  doubted  if  he 
heard  me.  What  could  he  be  thinking  of  so  intently  ? — a 
poor  working  lad,  whom  few  would  have  given  credit  for 
thinking  at  all. 


JOH]Sr   HALIFAX.  3 

r  flo  not  suppose  my  father  cast  a  single  glance  or  thought 
on  the  boy,  whom  from  a  sense  of  common  justice  he  had 
made  take  shelter  beside  us.  In  trutli,  worthy  man.  lie  Iiad 
no  lack  of  matter  to  occupy  his  mind,  being  sole  architect 
of  a  long  up-hill  but  now  thriving  trade.  I  saw,  by  the 
hardening  of  his  features,  and  the  restless  way  in  which  he 
poked  his  stick  into  the  little  waterpools,  that  he  was  long- 
ing to  be  in  his  tan-yard  close  by. 

He  i^ulled  out  liis  great  silver  watch — the  dread  of  oui 
house,  for  it  Avas  a  watch  which  seemed  to  have  imbi1)ed 
something  of  its  master's  character  :  remorseless  as  justice 
or  fate,  it  never  erred  a  moment. 

"  Twenty-three  minutes  lost  by  this  shower.  Phineas, 
my  son,  how  am  I  to  get  thee  safe  home  ;  unless  thee  wilt 
go  with  me  to  the  tan-yard — " 

I  shook  my  head.  It  was  very  hard  for  Abel  Fletcher  to 
have  for  his  only  child  such  a  sickly  creature  as  I,  now,  at 
sixteen,  as  helpless  and  useless  to  him  as  a  baby. 

"  Well,  well,  I  must  find  some  one  to  go  home  with  thee." 
For  though  my  father  had  got  me  a  sort  of  carriage,  in 
which,  with  a  little  external  aid,  I  could  propel  myself,  so 
as  to  be  his  companion  occasionally  in  his  walks  between  our 
house,  the  tan-yard,  and  the  Friends'  meeting-house — still, 
he  never  trusted  me  anywhere  alone.  "  Here,  Sail}' — Sally 
Watkins!  do  any  o'  thy  lads  want  to  earn  an  honest  penny?  " 

Sally  was  out  of  earshot ;  but  I  noticed  that  as  the  lad 
near  us  heard  my  father's  words,  the  color  rushed  over  his 
face,  and  he  started  forward  involuntarily.  I  had  not  before 
perceived  how  wasted  and  hungry-looking  he  Avas, 

"Father?"  I  whispered.     But    here   the  boy  had  mus- 
tered up  his  courage  and  voice. 
t''  Sir,  I  want  work  ;  may  I  earn  a  penny  ?  " 

He  spoke  in  tolerably  good  English — different  from  our 
coarse,  broad,  G shire  drawl ;  and  taking  off  his  tat- 
tered old  cap,  looked  right  up  into  my  father's  face.  The 
old  man  scanned  him  closely. 

"  What  is  thy  name,  lad  ?  " 

''John  Halifax." 

"  Where  dcst  thee  come  from  ?  " 


4  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Cornwall/' 

"  Hast  thee  any  parents  living  ?  " 

"No." 

I  wished  my  father  wonld  not  question  thus  ;  but  pos- 
sibly  he  had  his  own  motives,  which  were  rarely  harsh, 
though  his  actions  often  appeared  so. 

"  How  old  might  thee  be,  John  Halifax  ?  " 

"  Fourteen,  sir.^' 

"  Thee  art  used  to  work  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"What  sort  of  work?'' 

"Anything  that  I  can  get  to  do." 

I  listened  nervously  to  this  catechism,  which  went  on 
behind  my  back. 

"Well/'  said  my  father,  after  a  pause,  "  thee  shall  take 
my  son  home,  and  I'll  give  thee  a  groat.  Let  me  see  ; — art 
thee  a  lad  to  be  trusted  ?  "  And  holding  him  at  arm ' s  length, 
regarding  him  meanwhile  Avith  eyes  that  were  the  terror  of 
all  the  rogues  in  ]S"orton  Bury,  Abel  Fletcher  jingled  tempt- 
ingly the  silver  money  in  the  pockets  of  his  long-flapped 
broAvn  waistcoat.     "I  say,  art  thee  a  lad  to  be  trusted  ?" 

John  Halifax  neither  answered  nor  declined  his  eyes. 
He  seemed  to  feel  that  this  was  a  critical  moment,  and  to 
have  gathered  all  his  mental  forces  into  a  serried  square,  to 
meet  the  attack.     He  met  it,  and  conquered  in  silence. 

"  Lad,  shall  I  give  thee  the  groat  noAV  ?" 

"  Not  till  I've  earned  it,  sir." 

So,  drawing  his  hand  back,  my  father  slipped  the  money 
into  mine,  and  left  us. 

I  followed  him  with  my  eyes,  as  he  went  sturdily  plash- 
ing down  the  street ;  his  broad,  comfortable  back,  which 
owned  a  coat  of  true  Quaker  cut,  but  spotless,  warm,  and 
fine  :  his  ribbed  hose  and  leathern  gaiters,  and  the  wide- 
brimmed  hat,  set  over  a  fringe  of  gray  hairs,  that  crowned 
the  whole  with  respectable  dignity.  He  looked  precisely 
what  he  was, — an  honest,  honorable,  prosperous  tradesman. 
I  watched  him  down  the  street — my  good  father,  whom  1 
respected  perhaps  even  more  than  I  loved  him.  The  Cornish 
lad  watched  him  likewise. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,  5 

It  still  rained  slightly,  so  we  remained  undercover.  John 
Halifax  leaned  in  his  old  place,  and  did  not  attempt  to 
talk. 

Once  only,  when  the  draught  through  the  alley  made  me 
shiver,  he  jjulled  my  cloak  round  me  carefully. 

"  You  are  not  very  strong,  I'm  afraid  ?  " 

''  No." 

Then  he  stood  idly  looking  up  at  the  opjaosite — the  mayor's 
house, — with  its  steps  and  portico,  and  its  fourteen  windows, 
one  of  which  was  open,  and  a  cluster  of  little  heads  visible 
there. 

The  mayor's  children — I  knew  them  all  by  sight,  though 
nothing  more  ;  for  their  father  was  a  lawyer,  and  mine  a 
tanner  :  they  belonged  to  Abbey  folk  and  orthodoxy,  I  to 
the  Society  of  Friends — the  mayor's  rosy  children  seemed 
greatly  amused  by  watching  us  shivering  shelterers  from  the 
rain.  Doubtless  our  position  made  their  own  appear  all  the 
pleasanter.  For  myself,  it  mattered  little  ;  but  for  this 
poor,  desolate,  homeless,  wayfaring  lad  to  stand  in  sight  of 
their  merry  nnrsery-window,  and  hear  the  clatter  of  voices, 
and  of  not  unwelcome  dinner-sounds — I  Avondered  how  he 
felt  it. 

Just  at  this  moment  another  head  came  to  the  window,  a 
somewhat  older  child  ;  I  had  met  her  with  the  rest  ;  she 
was  only  a  visitor.  kShe  looked  at  us,  then  disappeared. 
Soon  after,  we  saw  the  front  door  half  opened,  and  an  evi- 
dent struggle  taking  place  behind  it ;  we  even  heard  loud 
words  across  the  narrow  street. 

"Iwill— Isay  Iwill." 

*' You  shan't.  Miss  Ursula." 

"  But  I  will ! " 

And  there  stood  the  little  girl,  with  a  loaf  in  one  hand, 
and  a  carving-knife  in  the  other.  She  succeeded  in  cutting 
off  a  large  slice,  and  holding  it  out. 

"  Take  it,  poor  boy  ! — you  look  so  hungry.  Do  take  it." 
But  the  servant  forced  her  in,  and  the  door  was  shut  upon 
a  sharp  cry. 

It  made  John  Halifax  start,  and  look  up  at  the  nursery 
window,  which  was   likewise  closed.     AVe   heard   nothing 


6  JOHN^   HALIFAX. 

more.  After  a  minute,  he  crossed  the  street,  and  picked 
up  the  slice  of  bread.  Now,  in  those  days  bread  was  pre- 
cious, exceedingly.  The  poor  folk  rarely  got  it ;  they  lived 
on  rye  or  meal.  John  Halifax  had  probably  not  tasted 
wheaten  bread  like  this  for  months  ;  it  appeared  not,  he 
eyed  it  so  ravenously  ;  then  glancing  towards  the  shut 
door,  his  mind  seemed  to  change.  He  was  a  long  time  be- 
fore he  ate  a  morsel  ;  when  he  did  so,  it  was  quietly  and 
slowly  ;  looking  very  thoughtful  all  the  while. 

As  soon  as  the  rain  ceased,  v.^e  took  our  way  home,  down 
the  High  Street,  toward  the  Abbey-church — he  guiding  my 
carriage  along  in  silence.  I  wished  he  would  talk,  and  let 
me  hear  again  his  pleasant  Cornish  accent. 

"  How  strong  you  are  ! "  said  I  sighing,  when,  with  a 
sudden  pull,  he  had  saved  me  from  being  overturned  by  a 
horseman  riding  past — young  Mr.  Brithwood  of  the  Mythe 
House,  who  never  cared  where  he  galloped  or  vrhom  he  hurt 
— "  So  tall  and  so  strong." 

'"  Am  I  ?    Well,  I  shall  want  my  strength." 

''How  ?" 

"  To  earn  my  living." 

He  drew  up  his  broad  shoulders,  and  planted  on  the 
pavement  a  firmer  foot,  as  if  he  knew  he  had  the  world  be- 
fore him — would  meet  it  single-handed,  and  without  fear. 

'•'  What  have  you  Avorked  at  lately  ?  " 

"  Anything  I  could  get,  for  I  have  never  learned  a 
trade." 

"  Would  you  like  to  learn  one  ?" 

He  hesitated  a  minute,  as  if  weighing  his  speech.  "  Once, 
I  thought  I  should  like  to  be  what  my  father  was." 

"  What  was  he  ?  " 

"  A  scholar  and  a  gentleman." 

This  was  news,  though  it  did  not  much  surprise  me.  My 
father,  tanner  as  he  was,  and  pertinaciously  jealous  of  tlie 
dignity  of  trade,  yet  held  strongly  the  common-sense  doc- 
trine of  the  advantages  of  good  descent  ;  at  least,  in  degree. 
For  since  it  is  a  law  of  nature,  admitting  only  rare  excep- 
tions, that  the  qualities  of  the  ancestors  should  be  trans- 
mitted to  the  race — the  fact  seems  patent  enough,  that  even 


.lUHN    HALIFAX.  7 

allowing  equal  advantages,  a  gentleman's  son  has  more 
chances  of  growing  up  a  gentleman  than  the  son  of  a  work- 
ing man.  And  though  he  himself,  and  his  father  before 
him,  had  both  been  working  men,  still,  I  think,  Abel 
Fletcher  never  forgot  that  we  originally  came  of  a  good 
stock,  and  that  it  pleased  liim  to  call  me,  his  only  son,  after 
one  of  our  forefathers,  not  unknown — Phineas  Fletcher, 
who  wrote  the  "  Purple  Island." 

Thus  it  seemed  to  me,  and  I  doubted  not  it  would  to  my 
father,  much  more  reasonable  and  natural,  that  a  boy  like 
John  Halifax — in  whom  from  every  word  he  said  I  detected 
a  mind  and  breeding  above  his  outward  condition — should 
come  of  gentle  rather  than  of  boorish  blood. 

"  Then,  perhaps,"  I  said,  resuming  the  conversation, 
"  you  would  not  like  to  follow  a  trade  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should.     What  would  it  matter  to  me  ?     My 
father  was  a  gentleman." 
"And  your  mother  ?" 

And  he  turned  suddenly  round  ;  his  cheeks  hot,  his  lips 
quivering.  "  She  is  dead.  I  do  not  like  to  hear  strangers 
speak  about  my  mother." 

I  asked  his  pardon.  It  was  j^lain  ho  had  loved  and 
mourned  her  ;  and  that  circumstances  had  smothered  down 
his  quick  boyish  feelings  into  a  man's  tenacity  of  betray- 
ing where  he  had  loved  and  mourned.— I,  only  a  few  min- 
utes after,  said  something  about  wisliing  we  were  not 
"strangers." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  The  lad's  half-amazed,  half-grateful  smile 
went  right  to  my  heart.. 

"  Have  you  been  up  and  down  the  country  much  ?  " 
"  A  great  deal— these  last  three  years  ;  doing  a  hand's 
turn,  as  best  I  could,  in  hop-picking,  apple-gathering,  har- 
vesting ;  only  this  summer  I  had  typhus  fever,  and  could 
not  work." 

"  What  did  you  do  then  ?" 

"■  I  lay  in  a  barn  till  I  got  well. — I  am  quite  well  now, 
you  need  not  be  afraid." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  I  never  thought  of  that." 

We  soon  became  quite  sociable  together.     He  guided  me 


8  JOHN"   HALIFAX. 

carefully  out  of  the  town  into  the  abbey  walk,  flecked  with 
sunshine  through  overhanging  trees.  Once  he  stopped  to 
pick  up  for  me  the  large  brown  fan  of  a  horse-chestnut  leaf. 

"^It's  pretty,  isn't  it — only  it  shows  that  autumn  is 
come." 

''And  how  shall  you  live  in  the  winter,  when  there  is  no 
out-of-door  work  to  be  had  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.'' 

The  lad's  countenance  fell,  and  that  hungry.weary  look, 
which  had  vanished  while  we  talked,  returned  more  pain- 
fully than  ever.  I  reproached  myself  for  having,  under  the 
influence  of  his  merry  talk,  temporarily  forgotten  it. 

"  Ah  !  "  I  cried  eagerly,  when  we  left  the  shade  of  the 
abbey  trees,  and  crossed  the  street ;  '■  here  we  are.  at  home  ! " 

"  Are  3^ou  ?"  The  homeless  lad  just  glanced  at  it — the 
flight  of  spotless  stone  steps  guarded  by  ponderous  railings, 
which  led  to  my  father's  respectable  and  handsome  door. 
"  Good-day,  then,  which  means  good-bye." 

I  started.  The  word  pained  me.  On  my  sad,  lonely 
life — brief  indeed,  though  ill-health  seemed  to  have  doubled 
and  trebled  my  sixteen  years  into  a  mournful  maturity — 
this  lad's  face  had  come  like  a  flash  of  sunshine  ;  a  reflection 
of  the  merry  boyhood,  the  youth  and  strength  that  never 
were,  never  could  be  mine.  To  let  it  go  from  me  was  like 
going  back  into  the  dark. 

"  x^ot  good-bye  just  yet !  "  said  I,  trying  painfully  to  dis- 
engage myself  from  my  little  carriage,  and  mount  the  steps. 
John  Halifax  came  to  my  aid. 

"^Suppose  you  let  me  carry  you.  .  I  could — and — and — it 
would  be  great  fun,  you  know." 

He  tried  to  turn  it  into  a  jest,  so  as  not  to  hurt  me  ;  but 
the  tremble  in  his  voice  was  as  tender  as  any  woman's — 
tenderer  than  any  woman's  /  ever  was  used  to  hear.  I  put 
my  arms  round  his  neck  ;  he  lifted  me  safely  and  carefully, 
and  set  me  at  my  own  door.  Then,  with  another  good-bye, 
he  again  turned  to  go. 

My  heart  cried  after  him  with  an  irrepressible  cry. 
What  I  said  I  do  not  remember,  but  it  caused  him  to  return, 

"  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do  for  you,  sir  ?  " 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  9 

'*  Don't  call  me  '  sir '  ;  I  am  only  a  hoy  like  yourself.  1 
want  you  ;  don't  go  yet.     Ah  !  here  comes  my  father  !  " 

John  Halifax  stood  aside,  and  touched  his  cap  with  a 
respectful  deference,  as  the  old  man  passed. 

"  So  here  thee  be — hast  thou  taken  care  of  my  son  ?  Did 
he  give  thee  thy  groat,  my  lad  ?  " 

We  had  neither  of  us  once  thought  of  the  money. 

When  I  acknowledged  this,  my  father  laughed,  called 
John  an  honest  lad,  and  began  searching  in  his  pocket  for 
some  larger  coin.  I  ventured  to  draw  his  ear  down,  and 
whisper  something — hut  I  got  no  answer  ;  meanwhile,  John 
Halifax,  for  the  third  time,  was  going  away. 

"  Stop,  lad — I  forgot  thy  name — here  is  thy  groat,  and  a 
shilling  added,  for  being  kind  to  my  son." 

''Thank  you,  but  I  don't  want  payment  for  kindness." 

He  kept  the  groat,  and  put  back  the  shilling  into  my 
father's  hand. 

"  Eh  ! "  said  the  old  man,  much  astonished,  "  thee'rt  an 
odd  lad  ;  but  I  can't  stay  talking  with  thee.  Come  in  to 
dinner,  Phineas. — I  say,"  turning  hack  to  John  Halifax 
with  a  sudden  thought,  "art  thee  hungry  ?" 

"Very  hungry."  Nature  gave  way  at  last,  and  great 
tears  came  into  the  poor  lad's  eyes.     "  Nearly  starving." 

"  Bless  me  !  then  get  in,  and  have  thy  dinner.  But 
first — "  and  my  inexorable  father  held  him  by  the  shoul- 
der ;  "  thee  art  a  decent  lad,  come  of  decent  parents  ?" 

"  Yes,"  almost  indignantly. 

"  Thee  works  for  thy  living  ?  " 

"I  do  whenever  I  can  get  it." 

"  Thee  hast  never  been  in  jail  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  thundered  out  the  lad,  with  a  furious  look.  "  I 
don't  want  your  dinner,  sir  ;  I  would  have  stayed,  because 
your  son  asked  me,  and  he  was  civil  to  me,  and  I  liked  him. 
Now,  I  think  I  had  better  go.     Good-day,  sir." 

There  is  a  verse  in  a  very  old  Book — even  in  its  human 
histories  the  most  pathetic  of  all  books — which  runs 
thus  : 

"And  it  came  to  pass,  tvhen  he  had  made  an  end  of 
speaMng  unto  Saul,  that  the  soul  of  Jonathan  was  knit 


10  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

unto  the  soul  of  David  ;  and  Jonathan  loved  him  as  his  own 
soul." 

And  this  day,  I,  a  poorer  and  more  helpless  Jonathan, 
had  found  my  David. 

I  caught  him  by  the  hand,  and  would  not  let  him  go. 

'"  There,  get  in,  lads — make  no  more  ado,"  said  Abel 
i^^letcher,  sharply,  as  he  disappeared. 

80,  still  holding  my  David  fast,  I  brought  him  into  my 
father's  house. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Dinner  was  over  ;  my  father  and  I  took  ours  in  the  large 
parlor,  where  the  stiff,  high-backed  chairs  eyed  one  another 
in  opposite  rows  across  the  wide  oaken  floor,  shiny  and  hard 
as  marble,  and  slippery  as  glass.  Except  the  table,  the  side- 
board, and  the  cuckoo  clock,  there  was  no  other  furniture. 

I  dared  not  bring  the  poor  wandering  lad  into  this,  my 
father's  especial  domain  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  was  away  in  the 
tan-yard,  I  sent  for  John. 

Jael  brought  him  in  ;  Jael,  the  only  womankind  we  ever 
had  about  us,  and  who,  save  to  me  when  I  happened  to  be 
very  ill,  certainly  gave  no  indication  of  her  sex  in  its  soft- 
ness and  tenderness.  There  had  evidently  been  wrath  in  the 
kitchen. 

"Phineas,  the  lad  ha' got  his  dinner,  and  you  mustn't 
keep  'un  long.  I  bean't  going  to  let  you  knock  yourself 
up  with  looking  after  a  beggar-boy." 

A  beggar-boy  !  the  idea  seemed  so  ludicrous  that  I  could 
not  help  smiling  at  it  as  I  regarded  him.  He  had  washed 
his  face  and  combed  out  his  fair  curls  ;  though  his  clothes 
were  threadbare,  all  but  ragged,  they  were  not  unclean  ; 
and  there  was  a  rosy,  healthy  freshness  in  his  tanned  skin, 
which  showed  he  loved  and  delighted  in  what  poor  folks 
generally  abominate — water.  And  now  the  sickness  of 
hunger  had  gone  from  his  face,  the  lad,  if  not  actually  what 
our  scriptural  Saxon  terms  "  well-favored,"  was  certainly 
"  well-liking."  A  beggar-boy,  indeed  !  I  hope  he  had  not 
heard  Jael's  remark.     But  he  had. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  with  a  bow  of  perfect  good-humor, 
and  even  some  sly  drollery,  "  you  mistake  ;  I  never  begged 
in  my  life  :  I  am  a  person  of  independent  property,  which 
consists  of  my  head  and  my  two  hands,  out  of  which  I  hope 
to  realize  a  large  capital  some  day." 

11 


12  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

I  laughed  ;  Jael  retired,  abundantly  mystified,  and  rather 
cross.  John  Halifax  came  to  my  easy-chair,  and  in  an 
altered  tone  asked  me  how  I  felt,  and  if  he  could  do  any- 
thing for  me  before  he  went  away. 

"  You'll  not  go  aAvay  ;  not  till  my  father  comes  home,  at 
least  ? "  for  I  had  been  revolving  many  plans,  which  had 
one  sole  aim  and  object,  to  keep  near  me  this  lad,  whose 
companionship  and  help  seemed  to  me,  brotherless,  sister- 
less,  and  friendless  as  I  was,  the  very  thing  that  would  give 
me  an  interest  in  life,  or,  at  least,  make  it  drag  on  less 
wearily.  To  say  that  what  I  projected  was  done  out  of 
charity  or  pity,  would  not  be  true  ;  it  was  simple  selfishness, 
if  that  be  selfishness  which  makes  one  leap  towards,  and 
cling  to,  a  possible  strength  and  good,  which  I  conclude  to 
be  the  secret  of  all  those  sudden  likings  that  spring  more 
from  instinct  than  reason.  I  do  not  attempt  to  account  for 
mine  :  I  know  not  why  "  the  soul  of  Jonathan  clave  to  the 
soul  of  David."  I  only  knew  that  it  was  so,  and  that  the 
first  day  I  beheld  the  lad  John  Halifax,  I,  Phineas  Fletcher, 
"loved  him  as  my  own  soul." 

Thus,  my  entreaty,  "  you'll  not  go  away  ?  "  was  so  earnest, 
that  it  apparently  touched  the  friendless  boy  to  the  core. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice,  as  leaning 
against  the  fireplace,  he  drew  his  hand  backwards  and  for- 
wards across  his  face;  "you  arc  very  kind;  I'll  stay  an 
hour  or  so,  if  you  wish  it." 

"  Then  come  and  sit  down  here,  and  let  us  have  a  talk." 

What  this  talk  was,  I  cannot  now  recall,  save  that  it 
ranged  over  many  and  wide  themes,  such  as  boys  delight  in 
—  chiefly  of  life  and  adventure.  He  knew  nothing  of  my 
only  world — books. 

"  Can  you  read  ?"  he  asked  me  at  last,  suddenly. 

"  I  should  rather  think  so."  And  I  could  not  helj)  smil- 
ing,  being  somewhat  proud  of  my  erudition. 

"And write  ?" 

"Oh,  yes  ;  certainly." 

He  thought  a  minute,  and  then  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I 
can't  write,  and  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  be  able  to  learn  ; 
I  wish  you  would  put  down  something  in  a  book  for  me." 


JOHX    HALIFAX.  13 

"  That  I  will/' 

He  took  out  of  liis  pocket  a  little  case  of  leather,  with  an 
under  one  of  black  silk  ;  within  this,  again,  was  a  book. 
He  would  not  let  it  go  out  of  his  hands,  but  held  it-  so  that 
I  could  see  the  leaves.     It  was  a  Greek  Testament, 

"Look  here." 

He  pointed  to  the  fly  leaf,  and  I  read — 

"  Guy  Halifax,  Jiis  Book. 

"  Guy  Halifax,  gentleman,  married  Muriel  Joyce,  spin 
ster,May  17,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1779. 

"  Jolni  Halifax,  tJieir  Mm,  lorn-  June  ISth,  1780.*' 

There  was  one  more  entry,  in  a  feeble,  illiterate  female 
hand  : 

"  Guy  Halifax,  died  January  4,  1781." 

''What  shall  I  write,  John  ?"  said  I,  after  a  minute  or 
so  of  silence. 

"  I'll  tell  you  presently.     Can  I  get  you  a  pen  ?" 

He  leaned  on  my  shoulder  with  his  left  hand,  but  his 
right  never  once  let  go  of  the  precious  book. 

"  ^Yv\ie—'  Muriel  Halifax,  died  Ja^iuary  1st,  1791.'" 

"  Nothing  more  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more." 

He  looked  at  the  writing  for  a  minute  or  two,  dried  it 
carefully  by  the  fire,  replaced  the  book  in  its  two  cases,  and 
put  it  into  his  pocket.  He  said  no  other  word  but  "  Thank 
you,"  and  I  asked  him  no  questions. 

This  was  all  I  ever  heard  of  the  boy's  parentage  ;  nor  do 
I  believe  he  knew  more  himself.  He  Avas  indebted  to  no 
forefathers  for  a  family  history  :  the  chronicle  commenced 
with  himself,  and  was  altogether  his  own  making.  No  ro- 
mantic antecedents  ever  turned  up  ;  his  lineage  remained 
uninvestigated,  and  his  pedigree  began  and  ended  with  his 
own  honest  name — John  Halifax. 

Jael  kept  coming  in  and  out  of  the  parlor  on  divers  ex- 
cuses, eyeing  very  suspiciously  John  Halifax  and  me  ;  espe- 
cially when  she  heard  me  laughing — a  rare  and  notable 
fact — for  mirth  was  not  the  fashion  in  our  house,  nor  the 
tendency  of  my  own  nature.  Now  this  young  lad,  hardly 
as  the  world  had  knocked  him  about  even  already,  had  an 


14  JOHlf    HALIFAX. 

overflowing  spirit  of  quiet  drollery  and  healthy  humor, 
which  was  to  me  an  inexpressible  relief.  It  gave  me  some- 
thing I  did  not  possess — something  entirely  new.  I  could 
not  look  at  the  dancing  brown  eyes,  at  the  quaint  dimples 
of  lurking  fun  that  played  hide-and-seek  under  the  firm  set 
rnouth,  Avithout  feeling  my  heart  cheered  and  delighted, 
like  one  brought  out  of  a  murky  chamber  into  the  open  day. 

But  all  this  was  highly  objectionable  to  Jael. 

"  Phineas  !  " — and  she  planted  herself  before  me  at  the 
end  of  the  table — "it's  a  fine,  sunshiny  day  :  thee  ought 
to  be  out. " 

"I  have  been  out,  thank  you,  Jael."  And  John  and  I 
went  on  talking. 

'''  Phineas  !  "  a  second  and  more  determined  attack — "  too 
much  laughing  bean't  good  for  thee  ;  and  it's  time  this  lad 
were  going  about  his  own  business." 

"Hush  ! — nonsense,  Jael." 

"  No — she's  right,"  said  John  Halifax,  rising,  while  that 
look  of  premature  gravity,  learned  doubtless  out  of  hard 
experience,  chased  all  the  boyish  fun  from  his  face.  "  I've 
had  a  merry  day — thank  you  kindly  for  it !  and  now  I'll 
be  gone." 

Gone  !  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of — at  least,  not  till 
my  father  came  home.  For  now,  more  determinedly  than 
ever,  the  plan  which  I  had  just  ventured  to  hint  at  to  my 
father,  fixed  itself  on  my  mind.  Surely,  he  would  not  re- 
fuse me  — me,  his  sickly  boy,  Avhose  life  had  in  it  so  little 
pleasure. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  ?     You  have  no  work  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  wish  I  had.     But  I'll  get  some." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  Just  by  trying  everything  that  comes  to  hand.  That's 
the  only  way.  I  never  wanted  bread,  nor  begged  it  yet, 
though  I've  been  rather  hungry.  And  as  for  clothes  " — 
he  looked  down  on  his  own,  light  and  threadbare,  here 
and  there  almost  burst  into  holes  by  the  stout  muscles  of  the 
big,  growing  boy — looked  rather  disconsolately.  "I'm 
afraid  she  would  be  sorry — that's  all !  She  always  kept  me 
so  tidy." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  15 

By  the  way  he  spoke,  "  she  "  must  have  meant  his  mother. 
There  the  orphan  lad  had  an  advantage  over  me  ;  alas  !  I 
did  not  remember  mine. 

"  Come,"  I  said,  for  now  I  had  quite  made  up  my  mind 
to  take  no  denial,  and  fear  no  rebuff  from  my  father  : 
"  cheer  up.     Who  knows  what  may  turn  up  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  something  always  does  :  I'm  not  afraid."  He 
tossed  back  his  curls,  and  looked  smiling  out  through  the 
window  at  the  blue  sky  ;  that  steady,  brave,  honest  smile, 
which  will  meet  Fate  in  every  turn,  and  fairly  coax  the 
jade  into  good  humor. 

"John,  do  you  know  you're  uncommonly  like  a  childish 
hero  of  mine — Dick  Whittington  ?  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
him  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Come  into  the  garden  then " — for  I  caught  another 
ominous  vision  of  Jael  in  the  doorway,  and  I  did  not  want 
to  vex  my  good  old  nurse  ;  besides,  unlike  John,  I  v^'as  any- 
thing but  brave.  "  You  will  he;n-  the  Abbey  belb  chime 
presently — not  unlike  Bow  bells,  I  used  to  fancy  sometimes  ; 
and  we'll  lie  on  the  grass,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  true 
and  particular  story  of  Sir  Richard  W'hittington." 

I  lifted  myself,  and  began  looking  for  my  crutches.  John 
found  and  put  them  into  my  hand,  with  a  grave,  pitifvd  look. 

"You  don't  need  those  sort  of  things,"  I  said,  n^aking 
pretence  to  laugh,  for  I  had  not  grown  used  to  them,  and 
felt  often  ashamed. 

"  1  hope  you  will  not  need  them  always.'' 

"  Perhaps  not — Doctor  Jessop  isn't  sure.  But  it  doesn't 
matter  much  ;  most  likely  I  shan't  live  long."  For  this  was, 
God  forgive  me,  ah\'ays  tlie  last  and  greatest  comfort  I  had. 

John  looked  at  me — surprised,  troubled,  compassionate — 
but  he  did  not  say  a  word.  I  hobbled  past  him  ;  he  following 
through  the  long  passage  to  the  garden  door.  There  I 
paused — tired  out.  John  Halifax  took  gentle  hold  of  my 
shoulder. 

"  I  think,  if  you  did  not  mind,  I'm  sure  I  could  carry 
you.     I  carried  a  meal-sack  once,  weighing  eight  stone," 

I  burst  out  laughing,  which  may  be  was  what  he  wanted. 


16  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

and  forthwith  consented  to  assume  the  place  of  the  meal- 
sack.  He  took  me  on  his  back — what  a  strong  fellow  he 
was  ! — and  fairly  trotted  with  me  down  the  garden-walk. 
We  were  both  very  merry,  and  though  I  was  his  senior,  I 
seemed  with  him,  out  of  my  great  weakness  and  infirmity, 
to  feel  almost  like  a  child. 

"  Please  take  me  to  that  clematis  arbor  ;  it  looks  over 
the  Avon.     Now,  how  do  you  like  our  garden  ?  " 

"It's  a  nice  place." 

He  did  not  go  into  ecstasies,  as  I  had  half  expected  ;  but 
gazed  about  him  observantly,  while  a  quiet,  intense  satisfac- 
tion grew  and  diffused  itself  over  his  whole  countenance. 

"  It's  a  very  nice  place." 

Certainly  it  was.  A  large  square,  chiefly  grass,  level  as  a 
bowling-green,  with  borders  round.  Beyond,  divided  by  a 
low  hedge,  was  the  kitchen  and  fruit  garden — my  father's 
pride,  as  this  old-fashioned  pleasaunce  was  mine.  When, 
years  ago,  I  was  too  weak  to  walk,  I  knew,  by  crawling, 
every  inch  of  the  soft,  green,  mossy,  daisy-jaatterned  car- 
pet, bounded  by  its  broad  gravel  walk  ;  and  above  that, 
apparently  shut  in  as  with  an  impassable  barrier  from  the 
outer  Avorld,  by  a  three-sided  fence,  the  high  wall,  the  yew- 
bedge,  and  the  river. 

John  Halifax's  comprehensive  gaze  seemed  to  take  in  all. 

' '  Have  you  lived  here  long  ?  "  he  asked  me. 

"  Ever  since  I  was  born." 

"Ah! — well,  it's  a  nice  place,"  he  repeated,  somewhat 
sadly.  "  This  grass-plot  is  very  even — thirty  yards  square, 
I  should  guess.   I'd  get  up  and  pace  it,  only  I'm  rather  tired." 

"  Are  you  ?     Yet  you  would  carry " 

"  Oh — that's  nothing.  I've  often  walked  farther  than 
to-day.  But  still  it's  a  good  step  across  the  country  since 
morning." 

"  How  far  have  you  come  ?  " 

"  From  the  foot  of  those  hills — I  forget  what  they  call 
them — over  there.     I  have  seen  bigger  ones — but  they  are 
steep  enough — bleak  and  cold,  too,  especially  when  one  is 
lying  out  among  the  sheep.     At  a  distance  they  look  pleas 
ant.     This  is  a  very  pretty  view." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  17 

Ay,  so  I  had  always  tliouglit  it ;  more  so  than  ever  now, 
when  I  had  some  one  to  say  too  how  "  very  pretty"  it  was. 
Let  me  describe  it — this  first  landscape,  the  sole  picture  of 
my  boyish  days,  and  vivid  as  all  such  pictures  are. 

At  the  end  of  the  arbor  the  wall  which  enclosed  us  on 
the  riverward  side  was  cut  down — my  father  had  done  it  at 
my  asking — so  as  to  make  a  seat,  something  after  the  fash- 
ion of  Queen  Mary's  seat  at  Stirling,  of  which  I  had  read. 
Thence,  one  could  see  a  goodly  sweep  of  country.  First, 
close  below,  flowed  the  Avon — Shakspeare's  Avon — here  a 
narrow,  sluggish  stream,  but  capable,  as  we  at  Norton  Bury 
sometimes  knew  to  our  cost,  of  being  roused  into  fierceness 
and  foam.  Now  it  slipped  on,  quietly  enough,  contenting 
itself  with  turning  a  flour-mill  hard  by,  the  lazy  whir  of 
which  made  a  sleepy,  incessant  monotone  which  I  was  fond 
of  hearing. 

From  the  opposite  bank  stretched  a  Avide  green  level, 
called  the  Ham — dotted  with  pasturing  cattle  of  all  sorts. 
Beyond  it  was  a  second  river,  forming  an  arc  of  a  circle 
round  the  verdant  flat.  But  the  stream  itself  lay  so  low  as 
to  be  invisible  from  where  we  sat  ;  you  could  only  trace  the 
line  of  its  course  by  the  small  white  sails  that  glided  in  and 
out,  oddly  enough,  from  behind  clumps  of  trees,  and  across 
meadow-lands. 

They  attracted  John's  attention.  "  Those  can't  be  boats, 
surely.     Is  there  water  there  ?  '' 

"  To  be  sure — or  you  would  not  see  the  sails.  It  is  the 
Severn — though  at  this  distance  you  can't  perceive  it ;  yet 
it  is  deep  enough  too,  as  you  may  see  by  the  boats  it  carries. 
You  would  hardly  believe  so,  to  look  at  it  here — but  I  be- 
lieve it  gets  broader  and  broader,  and  turns  out  a  noble 
river  by  the  time  it  reaches  the  King's  Boads,  and  forms 
the  Bristol  Channel.''^ 

"  I've  seen  that  !  "  cried  John  with  a  bright  look.  "  Ah, 
I  like  the  Severn." 

He  stood  gazing  at  it  a  good  while — a  new  expression 
dawning  in  his  eyes.  Eyes  in  which  then,  for  the  first  time, 
I  watched  a  thought  grow,  and  grow,  tiU  out  of  them  was 
shining  a  beauty  absolutely  divine. 

2 


18  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  Abbey  chimes  burst  out,  and  made 
the  lad  start. 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"Turn  again,  Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London,"  I 
sang  to  the  bells  ;  and  then  it  seemed  such  a  commonplace 
history,  and  such  a  very  low  degree  of  honor  to  arrive  at, 
that  I  was  really  glad  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  John  the  story. 
I  merely  showed  him  where,  beyond  our  garden  wall,  and 
in  the  invisible  high-road  that  interposed,  rose  up  the  grim 
old  Abbey  tower. 

"  Probably  this  garden  belonged  to  the  Abbey  in  ancient 
time— our  orchard  is  so  fine.  The  monks  may  have  planted 
it ;  they  liked  fruit,  those  old  fellows." 

"  Oh  !  did  they  !  "  He  evidently  did  not  quite  compre- 
hend, but  Avas  trying — without  asking — to  find  out  what  I 
referred  to.  I  was  almost  ashamed,  lest  he  might  think  I 
wanted  to  show  off  my  superior  knowledge. 

"  The  monks  were  parsons,  John,  you  know.  Very  good 
men,  I  dare  say,  but  ratlier  idle." 

"  Oh,  indeed.  Do  you  think  they  planted  that  yew 
hedge  ?  "     And  he  went  to  examine  it. 

Now,  far  and  near,  our  yew  hedge  was  noted.  There 
was  -Jiot  its  like  in  the  whole  country.  It  was  abovit  fifteen 
feet  high,  and  as  many  thick.  Century  and  century  of 
growth,  with  careful  clipping  and  training,  had  compacted 
it  into  a  massive  green  barrier,  as  close  and  impervious  as  a 
Avail. 

John  poked  in  and  about  it — peering  through  every 
interstice — leaning  his  breast  against  the  solid  depth  of 
branches  ;  but  their  close  shield  resisted  all  his  strength. 

At  length  he  came  back  to  me,  his  face  glowing  with  the 
vain  efforts  he  had  made. 

' '  What  were  you  about  ?     Did  you  want  to  get  through  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  just  to  see  if  it  were  possible." 

1  shook  my  head.  "  What  would  you  do,  John,  if  you 
were  shut  up  here,  and  had  to  get  over  the  yew  hedge  ?" 
You  could  not  climb  it  ?  " 

"  1  know  that,  and  therefore  should  not  waste  time  in 
trying." 


JOHK    HALIFAX.  19 

*'  Would  you  give  up,  then  ?  " 

He  smiled — there  was  no  "  giving  up/'  in  that  smile  of 
his.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  do — I'd  begin  and  hreak  it, 
twig  by  twig,  till  I  forced  my  way  through,  and  got  out  safe 
at  the  other  side." 

"  Well  done,  lad  !— hut  if  it's  all  the  same  to  thee,  I  would 
rather  thee  did  not  try  that  experiment  upon  my  hedge  at 
present." 

My  father  had  come  behind,  and  overheard  ns;.  unob- 
served. We  were  both  somewhat  confounded,  thougli  a 
grim  kindliness  of  aspect  showed  that  he  was  not  displeased 
— nay,  even  amused. 

"Is  that  thy  usual  fashion  of  getting  over  a  difficulty, 
friend — what's  thy  name  ?  " 

I  supplied  the  answer.  For  tlie  minute  Abel  Fletcher 
appeared.  John  seemed  to  lose  all  his  boyish  fun,  and  go 
back  to  that  premature  gravity  and  hardness  of  demeanor 
which  I  supposed  his  harsh  experience  of  tlie  world  of  men 
had  necessarily  taught  him,  but  which  was  very  sad  to  see 
in  a  lad  so  young. 

My  father  sat  down  beside  me  on  the  bencli — pushed 
aside  an  intrusive  branch  of  clematis — finally,  because  it 
would  come  back,  and  tickle  his  bald  pate,  broke  it  off,  and 
threw  it  into  the  river  ; — then  leaning  on  his  'stick  with 
both  hands,  eyed  John  Halifax  sharply,  all  over,  from  top 
to  toe. 

"  Didn't  thee  say  thee  wanted  work  ?  It  looks  rather 
like  it." 

His  glance  upon  the  shabby  clothes  made  the  boy  color 
violently. 

"  Oh,  thee  need'st  not  be  ashamed  ;  better  men  than  thee 
have  been  in  rags.     Hast  thee  any  money  ?  " 

"  The  groat  you  gave,  that  is,  paid  me  ;  I  never  take 
what  I  don't  earn,"  said  the  lad,  sticking  a  hand  in  either 
poor  pocket. 

"  Don't  be  afraid — I  was  not  going  to  give  thee  anytliing 
— except,  maybe — would  thee  like  some  work  ?  " 
"  0,  sir  !  " 
"  0,  father  ! " 


20  JOHX    HALIFAX. 

I  hardly  know  which  was  the  most  grateful  cry. 

Abel  Fletcher  looked  surprised,  but  on  the  whole  not  ill- 
pleased.  Putting  on  and  jDulling  down  his  broad-brimmed 
hat,  he  sat  meditatively  for  a  minute  or  so  ;  making  circles 
in  the  gravel  walk  with  the  end  of  his  stick.  People  said- 
nay,  Jael  herself,  once,  in  a  passion,  had  thrown  the  fact  at 
nie, — that  the  wealthy  Friend  himself  had  come  to  Norton 
Bury  without  a  shilling  in  his  pocket, 

"  Well,  what  work  canst  thee  do,  lad  ?  " 

''  Anything,"  was  the  eager  answer. 

•^"^  Anything  generally  means  nothing,"  sharjjly  said  my 
father  ;  "  what  hast  thee  been  at  all  this  year  ? — The  truth, 
mind ! " 

John's  eyes  flashed,  but  a  look  from  mirie  seemed  to  set 
him  right  again.  He  said  quietly  and  respectfully,  "  Let 
me  think  a  minute,  and  I'll  tell  you.  All  spring  I  was  at  a 
farmer's,  riding  the  plough-horses,  hoeing  turnips  ;  then  I 
went  up  the  hills  with  some  sheep  ;  in  June  I  tried  hay- 
making, and  caught  a  fever — you  needn't  start,  sir,  I've 
been  well  these  six  weeks,  or  I  wouldn't  have  come  near 
your  son — then- 


}} 


That  will  do,  lad — I'm  satisfied 

"  Thank  you,  sir." 

"  Thee  meed  not  say  '  sir ' — it  is  folly.  I  am  Abel  Fletcher. " 
For  my  father  retained  scrupulously  the  Friends'  mode  of 
speech,  though  he  was  j^ractically  but  a  lax  member  of  the 
Society,  and  had  married  out  of  its  pale.  In  this  announce- 
ment of  his  plain  name  appeared,  I  fancy,  more  pride  than 
humility. 

"  A^ery  well,  I  will  remember,"  answered  the  boy  fear- 
lessly, though  Avith  an  amused  twist  of  his  mouth  speedily 
restrained.  "And  now,  Abel  Fletcher,  I  shall  be  willing 
and  thankful  for  any  work  you  can  give  me.'-" 

"AWll  see  about  it." 

I  looked  gratefully  and  hopefully  at  my  father — but  his 
next  words  rather  modified  my  pleasure. 

"  Phineas,  one  of  my  men  at  the  tan-yard  has  gone  and 
'listed  this  day — left  an  honest  livelihood  to  be  a  paid  cut- 
throat.    Now  if  I  could  get  a  lad — one  too  young  to  be 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  21 

caught  hold  of  at  every  pot-house  by  that  man  of  blood,  the 
recruiting  sergeant — Dost  thee  think  this  lad  is  fit  to  take 
the  place  ?  " 

"  Whose  place,  father  'i" 

"Bill  Watkins'." 

I  was  dunifoundered  !  I  had  occasionally  seen  the  said 
Bill  Watkins,  whose  business  it  was  to  collect  the  skins 
which  my  father  had  bought  from  the  farmers  round  about. 
A  distinct  vision  presented  itself  tome  of  Bill  and  his  cart, 
from  which  dangled  the  sanguinary  exuviffi  of  defunct  ani- 
mals,— while  in  front  the  said  Bill  sat  enthroned,  dirty-clad, 
and  dirty-handed,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  The  idea  of 
John  Halifax  in  such  a  position  was  not  agreeable. 

"  But,  father " 

He  read  de]irecation  in  my  looks — alas  I  he  kuew  too 
well  how  I  disliked  the  tan-yard  and  all  belonging  to  it. 
"  Thee'rt  a  fool,  and  the  lad's  another.  He  may  go  about 
his  business  for  me." 

"  But  father, — isn't  there  anything  else  ?  " 

"  I  have  nothing  else,  or  if  I  had,  I  wouldn't  give  it. 
*  He  that  will  not  work,  neither  shall  lie  eat.'" 

"1  will  work,"  said  John,  sturdily — he  had  listened, 
scarcely  comprehending,  to  my  father  and  me.  "  1  don't 
care  what  it  is,  if  only  it's  honest  Avork." 

Abel  Fletcher  was  mollified.  He  turned  his  back  on  me 
^but  that  I  little  minded, — and  addressed  himself  solely 
to  John  Halifax. 

''Canst  thee  drive?" 

"That  I  can!"  and  his  eyes  brightened  with  boyish 
delight. 

"  Tut !  it's  only  a  cart — the  cart  with  the  skins.  Dost 
thee  know  anything  of  tanning  ?  " 

"No,  but  I  can  learn." 

"  Hey,  not  so  fast !  still,  better  be  fast  than  slow.  In 
the  meantime,  thee  can  drive  the  cart." 

"  Thank  you,  sir — Abel  Fletcher,  I  mean — I'll  do  it  well. 
That  is,  as  well  as  I  can." 

"And  mind!  no  stopping  on  the  road.  Xo  drinking, 
to  find  the  King's  cursed  shilling  at  the  bottom  of  the 


22  JOHIlSr    HALIFAX. 

glass,  like  poor  Bill,  for  thy  mother  to  come  crying  and 
pestering. — Thee  hasn't  got  one,  eh  ? — So  much  the  better, 
— all  women  are  born  fools — especially  mothers." 

"  Sir  !  "  The  lad's  face  was  all  crimson  and  quivering  ; 
his  voice  choked  ;  it  was  with  difficulty  he  smothered 
down  a  burst  of  tears.  Perhaps  this  self-control  was  more 
moving  than  if  he  had  wept — at  least  it  answered  better 
with  my  father. 

After  a  few  minutes  more,  during  which  his  stick  had 
made  a  little  grave  in  the  middle  of  the  walk,  and  buried 
something  there— I  think  something  besides  the  jjebble — 
Abel  Fletcher  said,  not  unkindly, 

"Well,  ril  take  thee  ;  though  it  isn't  often  I  take  a  lad 
without  a  character    of   some    sort — I    suppose   thee  hast 


none." 


"  None,"  was  the  answer,  while  the  straightforward, 
steady  gaze  which  accompanied  it  unconsciously  contra- 
dicted the  statement ;  his  own  honest  face  was  the  lad's 
best  witness — -at  all  events,  I  thought  so. 

" 'Tis  done  then,"  said  my  father,  concluding  the  busi- 
ness more  quickly  than  I  had  ever  before  known  his  cau- 
tious temper  settle  even  such  a  seemingly  trifling  matter. 
I  say  seemingly.  How  blindly  we  talk  when  we  talk  of 
"trifles." 

Carelessly  rising,  he,  from  some  kindly  impulse,  or  else 
to  mark  the  closing  of  the  bargain,  shook  the  boy's  hand, 
and  left  in  it  a  shilling. 

"What  is  this  for?" 

"  To  show  I  have  hired  thee  as  my  servant." 

"  Servant !  "  John  repeated,  hastily,  and  rather  proudly. 
"  Oh  yes,  I  understand — well,  I  will  try  and  serve  you 
well." 

My  father  did  not  notice  that  manly,^  self-dependent 
smile.  He  was  too  busy  calculating  how  many  more  of 
those  said  shillings  would  be  a  fair  equivalent  for  such 
labor  as  a  lad,  ever  so  much  the  junior  of  Bill  Watkins, 
could  supply.  After  some  cogitation,  he  hit  upon  the 
right  sum.  I  forget  how  much — be  sure  it  was  not  over 
much  ;    for  money  was  scarce  enough    in  this  war-time ; 


JOHK    HALIFAX.  23 

and,  besides,  there  was  a  belief  afloat,  so  widely  tliat  it 
tainted  even  my  worthy  father,  tliat  plenty  was  not  good 
for  the  working-classes  :  they  required  to  be  kept  low. 

Having  settled  the  question  of  wages,  which  John  Hali- 
fax did  not  debate  at  all,  my  father  left  us,  but  turned  back 
when  half-way  across  the  green-turfed  square. 

"Thee  said  thee  had  no  money  ;  there's  a  week  in  ad- 
vance, my  son  being  witness  I  pay  it  thee  ;  and  1  can  pay 
thee  a  shilling  less  every  Saturdny  till  we  get  straight." 

"Very  well,  sir  ;  good-afternoon,  and  thank  you." 

John  took  off  his  cap  as  he  spoke, — Abel  Fletcher,  invol- 
untarily almost,  touched  his  hat  in  return  of  the  saluta- 
tion. Then  he  walked  away,  and  we  had  the  garden  all 
to  ourselves — we,  Jonathan  and  his  new-found  David. 

I  did  not  "  fall  upon  his  neck,"  like  the  princely  Hebrew, 
to  whom  I  have  likened  myself,  but  whom,  alas  !  I  resem- 
bled in  nothing  save  my  loving.  Hut  I  grasped  his  hand, 
for  the  first  time,  and  looking  up  at  him,  as  he  stood 
thonghtfully  by  me,  whispered,  "that  I  Avas  very  glad." 

"  Thank  you — so  am  I,"  said  he  in  a  low  tone.  Then  all 
his  old  manner  returned  ;  he  threw  his  battered  cap  high 
up  in  the  air,  and  shouted  out,  "  Hurrah  !  " — a  thorough 
boy. 

And  I  in  my  poor,  quavering  voice,  shouted  too. 


CHAPTER  III. 

When  I  was  young,  and  long  after  then,  at  intervals, 
I  had  the  very  useless,  sometimes  harmful,  and  invariably 
foolish  habit  of  keeping  a  diary.  To  me,  at  least,  it  has 
been  less  foolish  and  harmful  than  to  most  ;  and  out  of  it, 
together  with  much  drawn  out  of  the  stores  of  memory, 
made  preternaturally  vivid  by  a  long  introverted  life,  which, 
colorless  itself,  had  nothing  to  do  Ijut  to  reflect  and  retain 
clear  images  of  the  lives  around  it — out  of  these  two  sources 
I  have  compiled  the  present  history. 

Therein,  necessarily,  many  blank  epochs  occur.  These  I 
shall  not  try  to  fill  up,  but  merely  resume  the  thread  of 
narration  as  recollection  serves. 

Thus,  after  this  first  day,  many  days  came  and  went 
before  I  again  saw  John  Halifax — almost  before  I  again 
thought  of  him.  For  it  was  one  of  my  seasons  of  excessive 
pain  ;  when  I  found  it  difiicult  to  think  of  anything  be- 
yond those  four  gray-painted  walls  ;  where  morning,  noon, 
and  night  slipped  wearily  away,  marked  by  no  changes, 
save  from  daylight  to  candlelight,  from  candlelight  to  dawn. 

Afterwards,  as  my  pain  abated,  I  began  to  be  haunted  by 
occasional  memories  of  something  pleasant  that  had  crossed 
my  dreary  life  ;  visions  of  a  brave,  bright  young  face,  ready 
alike  to  battle  with  and  enjoy  the  world.  I  could  hear  the 
voice,  that,  speaking  to  me,  was  always  tender  Mnth  pity — 
yet  not  pity  enough  to  wound  :  I  could  see  the  jjeculiar 
smile  just  creeping  round  his  grave  mouth — that  irrepress- 
ible smile,  indicating  the  atmosphere  of  thorough  hearts 
cheerfulness,  which  ripens  all  the  fruits  of  a  noble  nature, 
and  without  which  the  very  noblest  has  about  it  something 
unwholesome,  blank,  and  cold. 

I  wondered  if  John  had  ever  asked  for  me.  At  length  I 
put  the  question, 

24 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  25 

Jael  "  thought  he  had — but  wasn't  sure.  Didn't  bother 
her  head  about  such  folk." 

''  If  he  asked  again,  might  he  come  upstairs  ?" 

"  No." 

I  was  too  weak  to  combat,  and  Jael  was  too  strong  an 
adversar}'  ;  so  I  lay  for  days  and  days  in  my  sick-room,  often 
thinking,  Init  never  speaking,  about  the  lad.  Never  once 
asking  for  him  to  come  to  me.  Not  though  it  would 
have  been  life  to  me  to  see  his  merry  face — I  longed  after 
him  so. 

At  last  I  broke  the  bonds  of  sickness — which  Jael  always 
riveted  as  long  and  as  tightly  as  she  could — and  plunged 
into  the  outer  world  again. 

It  was  one  market-day — Jael  being  absent — that  I  came 
downstairs.  A  soft,  bright,  autumn  morning,  mild  as 
spring,  coaxing  a  wandering  robin  to  come  and  sing  to  me, 
loud  as  a  quire  of  birds,  out  of  the  thinned  trees  of  the 
Abbey-yard.  I  opened  the  window  to  hear  him,  though  all 
the  while  in  mortal  fear  of  Jael.  I  listened,  but  caught  no 
tone  of  her  sharj)  voice,  which  usually  came  painfully  from 
the  back  regions  of  the  house  ;  it  would  ill  have  harmonized 
with  the  sweet  autumn  dav  and  the  robin's  song.  I  sat, 
idly  thinking  so,  and  wondering  whether  it  were  a  necessary 
and  universal  fact  that  human  beings,  unlike  the  year, 
should  become  harsh  and  unlovely  as  they  grow  old. 

My  robin  had  done  singing,  and  I  amused  myself  with 
watching  a  spot  of  scarlet  winding  down  the  rural  road,  our 
house  being  on  the  verge  where  Norton  Bury  melted  into 
"  the  country."  It  turned  out  to  be  the  cloak  of  a  well-to-do 
young  farmer's  wife  riding  to  market  in  her  cart  beside  her 
jolly-looking  spouse.  Very  spruce  and  self-satisfied  she  ap- 
peared, and  the  market  people  turned  to  stare  after  her,  for 
her  costume  was  a  novelty  then.  Doubtless,  many  thought 
as  I  did,  how  much  prettier  was  scarlet  than  duffle  gray. 

Behind  the  farmer's  cart  came  another,  which  at  first  I 
scarcely  noticed,  being  engrossed  by  the  ruddy  face  under 
the  red  cloak.  The  farmer  himself  nodded  good-humoredly, 
but  Mrs.  Scarlet-cloak  turned  up  her  nose.  "  Oh,  pride 
pride  ! "  I  thought,  amused,  and  watched  the  two  carts,  the 


26  JOHISr   HALIFAX. 

second  of  wlijch  was  with  difficulty  passing  the  farmer's,  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  narrow  road.  At  last,  it  succeeded 
in  getting  in  advance,  to  the  young  woman's  evident  annoy- 
ance, until  the  driver,  turning,  lifted  his  hat  to  her  with 
such  a  merry,  frank,  pleasant  smile. 

Surely,  1  knew  that  smile,  and  the  well-set  head  with  its 
I  light  C'urly  hair.  Also,  alas  !  I  knew  the  cart  with  relics 
of  departed  sheep  dangling  out  behind.  It  was  our  cart  of 
skins,  and  John  Halifax  was  driving  it. 

'^  John  !  John  I"  I  called  out,  hut  he  did  not  hear,  for 
his  horse  had  taken  fright  at  the  red  cloak,  and  required  a 
steady  hand.  Very  steady  the  boy's  hand  was,  so  that  the 
farmer  clapped  his  two  great  fists,  and  shouted  "  Bray-vo  !  " 

But  John — my  John  Halifax — he  sat  in  his  cart,  and 
drove.  His  appearance  Avas  much  as  when  I  first  saw  him 
— shabbier,  perhaps,  as  if  through  repeated  drenchings  ; 
this  had  been  a  wet  autumn,  Jael  had  told  me.  Poor 
John  ! — well  might  he  look  gratefully  up  at  the  clear  blue 
sky  to-day;  ay,  and  the  sk}?^  never  looked  down  on  a  brighter, 
cheerier  face — the  same  face,  which,  whatever  rags  it  sur- 
mounted, would,  I  believe,  have  ennobled  them  all. 

I  leaned  out,  watching  him  apjjroach  our  house  ;  watch- 
ing him  with  so  great  pleasure,  that  I  forgot  to  wonder 
whether  or  no  he  would  notice  me.  He  did  not  at  first, 
being  busy  over  his  horse  ;  until,  just  as  the  notion  flashed 
across  my  mind  that  he  was  passing  by  our  house — also, 
how  keenly  his  doing  so  would  pain  me — the  lad  looked  up. 

A  beaming  smile  of  surprise  and  pleasure,  a  friendly  nod, 
then  all  at  once  his  manner  changed  ;  he  took  off  his  cap, 
and  bowed  ceremoniously  to  his  master's  son. 

For  the  moment,  I  was  hurt ;  then  I  could  not  but  re- 
spect the  honest  pride  which  thus  intimated  that  he  knew 
his  own  position,  and  wished  neither  to  ignore  nur  to  alter 
it ;  all  advances  between  us  must  evidently  come  from  my 
side.  So,  having  made  his  salutation,  he  was  driving  on, 
when  I  called  after  him — 

''John!  John!" 

"  Yes,  sir.     I  am  so  glad  you're  better  again." 

''Stop   one    minute    till    1  come    out  to  you."     And  I 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  27 

crawled  on  my  crutches  to  the  front  door,  forgetting  every- 
thing but  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him — forgetting  even  my 
terror  of  Jael.  What  could  she  say  ?  even  though  she 
held  nominally  the  Friends'  doctrine — obeyed  in  the  letter 
at  least.  ''  Call  no  man  your  master  " — what  would  Jael 
say  if  she  found  me,  Phineas  Fletcher,  talking  in  front  of 
'  my  father's  respectable  mansion  with  the  vagabond  la4  who 
drove  my  father's  cart  of  skins  ?  " 

But  I  braved  her,  and  opened  the  door.  "  John,  w  here 
are  you  ?  " 

"Here"  (he  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  with  the  reins 
on  his  arm)  ;  "did  you  want  me  ?" 

"  Yes.     Come  up  here  ;  never  mind  the  cart." 

But  that  was  not  John's  Avay.  lie  led  the  refractory 
horse,  settled  him  comfortably  under  a  tree,  and  gave  him 
in  charge  to  a  small  boy.  Then  he  Ijounded  back  across 
the  road  and  was  up  the  steps  to  my  side  in  a.  single  leap. 

"I  had  no  notion  of  seeing  you.  They  said  you  were  in 
bed  yesterday."  (Then  he  J/ad  been  inquiring  for  me!) 
'•'  Ought  you  to  be  standing  at  the  door  this  cold  day  ?  " 

"  It's  quite  warm,"  I  said,  looking  up  at  the  sunshine, 
and  shivering. 

"Please,  go  in." 

"  If  you'll  come  too." 

He  nodded,  then  put  his  arm  around  mine,  and  helped  me 
in,  as  if  he  had  been  a  big  elder  brother,  and  I  a  little  ailing 
child.  AVell  nursed  and  carefully  guarded  as  I  had  always 
been,  it  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  ever  knew  the  mean- 
ing of  that  rare  thing — tenderness.  A  quality  differer.t 
from  kindliness,  affectionateness,  or  benevolence  ;  a  quality 
which  can  exist  only  in  strong,  deep  and  undemonstrative 
natures,  and  therefore  in  its  perfection  is  oftenest  found  in 
men.  John  Halifax  had  it  more  than  any  one,  woman  or 
man,  that  I  ever  knew. 

"I'm  glad  you're  better,"  he  said,  and  said  no  more. 
But  one  look  of  his  expressed  as  much  as  half-a-dozen  sym- 
pathetic sentences  of  other  people. 

"And  how  have  you  been,  John  ?  How  do  you  like  the 
tan-yard  ?     Tell  me  frankly." 


28  JOHlSr    HALIFAX. 

He  pulled  a  wry  face,  though  comical  withal,  and  said, 
cheerily — "  Everybody  must  like  what  brings  them  their 
daily  bread.  It's  a  grand  thing  for  me  not  to  have  been 
hungry  for  nearly  thirty  days.^' 

^'  Poor  John  !  "  I  j)ut  my  hand  on  his  wrist — his  strong, 
brawny  wrist.  Perhaps  the  contrast  involuntarily  struck 
us  both  with  the  truth — good  for  both  to  learn — that 
Heaven's  ways  are  not  so  unequal  as  we  sometimes  fancy 
they  seem. 

"  I  have  so  often  wanted  to  see  you,  John.  Couldn't  you 
come  in  now  ?  '" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  pointed  to  the  cart.  That  minute, 
through  the  open  hall-door,  1  perceived  Jael  sauntering 
leisurely  home  from  the  market. 

Now,  if  I  was  a  coward,  it  was  not  fur  myself  this  time. 
The  avalanche  of  ill-words  I  knew  must  fall — but  it  should 
not  fall  on  him,  if  I  could  help  it. 

"  Jump  up  on  your  cart,  John.  Let  me  see  how  well 
you  can  drive.  There — good-bye,  for  the  present.  Are 
you  going  to  the  tan-yard  ?  " 

"  Yes — for  the  rest  of  the  day.''  And  he  made  a  face  as 
if  he  did  not  quite  revel  in  that  delightful  prospect — No 
wonder  ! 

"'  I'll  come  and  see  you  there  this  afternoon." 

"  No  ?  " — with  a  look  of  delighted  surprise.  "  But  you 
rmist  not — you  ought  not." 

"  But  /  ivill !  " — And  I  laughed  to  hear  m3^self  actually 
using  that  phrase.     "What  would  Jael  have  said  ? 

What — as  she  arrived  just  in  time  to  receive  a  half-mali- 
cious, half-ceremonious  bow  from  John,  as  he  drove  off — 
what  that  excellent  woman  did  say,  I  have  not  tlie  slightest 
recollection.  I  only  remember  th*at  it  did  not  frighten  and 
grieve  me  as  such  attacks  used  to  do  ;  that,  in  her  own  ver- 
nacular, it  all  "  Avent  in  at  one  ear,  and  out  at  t'other  ; "  that 
I  persisted  in  looking  out  until  the  last  glimmer  of  the  bright 
curls  had  disappeared  down  the  sunshiny  road — then  shut 
the  front  door,  and  crept  in,  content. 

Between  that  time  and  dinner,  I  sat  quiet  enough  even 
to  please  Jael.     I  was  thinking  over  the  beautiful  old  Bible 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  29 

story,  which  latterly  had  so  vividly  impressed  itself  on  my 
mind  ;  thinking  of  Jonathan,  as  he  walked  "by  the  stone 
Ezel,"  with  the  shepherd-lad,  who  was  to  be  king  of  Israel. 
I  wondered  whether  he  would  have  loved  him,  and  seen  the 
same  future  perfection  in  him,  had  Jonathan,  the  king's  son, 
met  the  poor  David  keeping  his  sheep  among  the  folds  of 
Bethlehem. 

When  my  father  came  home,  he  found  me  waiting  in  my 
place  at  table.  He  only  said,  "  Thee  are  better  then,  my 
son  ?  " — But  I  knew  how  glad  he  was  to  see  me.  He  gave 
token  of  this  by  being  remarkably  conversiblo  over  our  meal 
— though,  as  usual,  his  conversation  had  a  sternly  moral 
tone,  adapted  to  the  improvement  of  what  lu^  persisted- 
in  considering  my  "infant"  mind.  It  had  reference  to 
an  anecdote  Dr.  Jessop  had  just  been  telling  him — about 
a  little  girl,  one  of  our  doctor's  patients,  who,  in  some 
passionate  struggle,  had  hurt  herself  very  much  with  a 
knife. 

"  Let  this  he  a  warning  to  thee,  my  son.  not  to  give  way 
to  violent  passions." — (My  good  father,  thought  I,  there  is 
little  fear.) — "  For,  this  child — I  remember  her  father  well, 
for  he  lived  at  Kingswell  here  ;  he  was  violent  too,  and 
much  given  to  evil  ways  before  he  went  abroad — Phineas, 
this  child,  this  miserable  child,  will  bear  the  mark  of  the 
wound  all  her  life." 

"  Poor  thing  ! "  said  I,  absently. 

"  No  need  to  pity  her  ;  her  spirit  is  not  half  broken  yet. 
Thomas  Jessop  said  to  me,  '  That  little  Ursula '" 

"  Is  her  name  Ursula  ?  "  And  I  called  to  mind  the  little 
girl  who  had  tried  to  give  some  bread  to  the  hungry  John 
Halifax,  and  whose  cry  of  pain  we  heard  as  the  door  shut 
upon  her.  Poor  little  lady  !- — how  sorry  I  was.  I  knew 
John  would  be  so  infinitely  sorry  too — and  all  to  no  pur= 
pose — that  I  determined  not  to  tell  him  anything  about  it. 
The  next  time  I  saw  Dr.  Jessop,  I  asked  him  after  the  child, 
and  learned  she  had  been  taken  away  somewhere. — I  forget 
where  ;  and  then  the  whole  affair  slipped  from  my  memory, 

"  Father,"  said  I,  when  he  ceased  talking — and  Jael,  who 
always  ate  her  dinner  at  the  same  time  and  table  as  our- 


30  JOHN"   HALIFAX. 

selves,  but  "  below  the  salt,"  had  ceased  nodding  a  respectful 
running  comment  on  all" he  said — "  Father  ?  " 

"Well,  my  son." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  with  thee  to  the  tan-yard  this  after- 
noon." 

Here  Jael,  who  had  been  busy  pulling  back  the  table, 
replacing  the  long  row  of  chairs,  and  re-sanding  the  broad 
centre  Sahara  of  the  room  to  its  dreary,  pristine  aridness, 
stopped,  fairly  aghast  with  amazement. 

"  Abel — Abel  Fletcher  !  the  lad's  just  out  of  his  bed  ;  he 
is  no  more  fit  to " 

"  Pshaw,  woman  ! "  was  the  sharp  answer. — "  So,  Phineas, 
thee  art  really  strong  enough  to  go  out  ?  " 

"  If  thou  wilt  take  me,  father." 

He  looked  pleased,  as  he  always  did  when  I  used  the 
Friends'  mode  of  phraseology, — for  I  had  not  been  brought 
up  in  the  Society  ;  this  having  been  the  last  request  of  my 
mother,  rigidly  observed  by  her  husband.  The  more  so, 
people  said,  as  while  she  lived  they  had  not  been  quite 
happy  together.  But  whatever  he  was  to  her,  in  their  brief 
union,  he  Avas  a  good  father  to  me,  and  for  his  sake  I  have 
always  loved  and  honored  the  Society  of  Friends. 

"  Phineas,"  said  he  (after  having  stopped  a  volley  of  poor 
Jael's  indignations,  beseechings,  threats  and  prognostica- 
tions, by  a  resolute  "  Get  the  lad  ready  to  go  ") — "  Phineas, 
my  son,  I  rejoice  to  see  thy  mind  turning  towards  business. 
I  trust,  should  better  health  be  vouchsafed  thee,  that  some 
day  soon " 

"  ISTot  just  yet,  father,"  said  I,  sadly — for  I  knew  what  he 
referred  to,  and  that  it  would  never  be.  Mentally  and 
physically  I  alike  revolted  from  my  father's  trade.  I  held 
the  tan-yard  in  abhorrence — to  enter  it  made  me  ill  for 
days  ;  sometimes  for  months  and  months  I  never  went  near 
it.  That  I  should  ever  be,  what  was  m}^  poor  father's  one 
desire,  his  assistant  and  successor  in  his  business,  was,  I 
knew,  a  thing  totally  impossible. 

It  hurt  me  a  little,  that  my  project  of  going  with  him 
to-day  should  in  any  way  have  deceived  him  ;  and  ratlier 
silently   and   drearily   we   set   out   together  ;    progressing 


,  J0HJ7    HALIFAX.  bi 

through  Norton  Bury  streets,  in  our  old  way,  my  father 
marching  along  in  his  grave  fashion,  I  steering  my  little 
carriage,  and  keeping  as  close  as  I  could  beside  him.  Many 
a  person  locjivcd  at  us  as  we  passed  ;  almost  everybody  knew 
us,  but  few,  even  of  our  own  neigldjors,  saluted  us  ;  we 
were  Nonconformists  and  Quakers. 

I  had  never  been  in  the  town  since  the  day  I  came  through 
it  with  John  Halifax.  The  season  was  much  later  now, 
but  it  was  quite  warm  still  in  the  sunshine,  and  very  pleas- 
ant looked  -the  streets,  even  the  close,  narrow  streets  of 
Norton  Bury — I  beg  its  pardon  ;  antiquaries  hold  it  a  most 
"  interesting  and  remarkable ''  place  ;  and  I  myself  have 
sometimes  admired  its  quaint,  overhanging,  ornamented, 
house-fronts — blackened,  and  wonderfully  old.  But  one 
rarely  notices  what  has  been  familiar  tliroughout  life  ;  and 
now  I  was  less  struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  picturesque  old 
town,  than  by  the  muddiness  of  its  pathways,  and  the  min- 
gled noises  of  murmuring  looms,  scolding  wojnen,  and 
squabbling  children,  that  came  up  from  the  alleys  which 
lay  between  the  High  Street  and  the  Avon.  In  those 
alleys  hundreds  of  our  poor  folk  livin^^r.  huddled  together  in 
misery,  rags,  and  dirt.    Was  John  Halifax  living  there  too  ? 

My  father's  tan-yard  was  in  an  alley  a  little  further  on. 
Already  I  perceived  the  familiar  odor  ;  sometimes  a  not 
unpleasant  barky  smell  ;  at  other  times  borne  in  horrible 
wafts,  as  if  from  a  lately-forsaken  battle-field.  I  wonderec? 
how  anybody  could  endure  it — yet  some  did  ;  and  among 
the  Avorkmen,  as  we  entered,  I  looked  round  for  the  lad  I 
knew. 

He  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  one  of  the  sheds,  heljoing 
two  or  three  women  to  split  bark,  very  busy  at  work  ;  yet 
he  found  time  to  stop  now  and  then,  and  administer  a  wisp 
of  sweet  hay  to  the  old  blind  mare,  as  she  went  slowly 
round  and  round,  turning  the  bark-mill.  Nobody  seemed 
to  notice  him,  and  he  did  not  speak  to  anybody. 

As  we  passed,  John  did  not  even  see  us.  I  asked  my 
father,  in  a  whisper,  how  he  liked  the  boy. 

"  What  boy  ? — Eh,  him  ? — Oh,  well  enough — there's  no 
harm  in  him  that  I  know  of.     Dost  thee  want  him  to  wheel 


32  JOHN    HALIFAX.  , 

thee  a])out  the  yard  ?  Here,  I  say,  la<i — bless  me  !  I've  for- 
got thy  name/' 

John  Halifax  started  up  at  the  sharp  tone  of  command, 
but  when  he  saw  me,  he  smiled.  My  father  walked  on  to 
some  pits  where  he  told  me  he  was  trying  an  important  ex- 
periment, how  a  hide  might  be  tanned  completely  in  five 
months,  instead  of  eight.     I  stayed  behind. 

"  John,  I  want  you." 

John  shook  himself  free  of  the  bark-heap,  and  came, 
tather  hesitatingly  at  first. 

"  Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  Don't  call  me  '  sir ' ;  if  I  say  '  John,'  why  don't  you  say 
'Phineas?'" 

And  I  held  out  my  hand — his  was  all  grimed  with  bark 
dust. 

"Are  you  not  ashamed  to  shake  hands  with  me  ?" 

"  Nonsense,  John." 

So  Ave  settled  that  point  entirely.  xVnd  though  he  never 
failed  to  maintain  externally  a  certain  gentle  respectfulness 
of  demeanor  towards  me,  yet  it  was  more  the  natural  def- 
erence of  the  younger  to  the  elder,  of  the  strong  to  the 
weak,  than  the  duty  paid  by  a  serving-lad  to  his  master's 
son.     And  this  was  how  I  best  liked  it  to  be. 

He  guided  me  carefully  among  the  tan-pits — those  deep 
fosses  of  abomination,  with  a  slender  network  of  pathways 
thrown  between — until  we  reached  the  lower  end  of  the 
yard.  It  Avas  bounded  by  the  Avon  only,  and  by  a  great 
heap  of  refuse  bark. 

"  This  is  not  a  bad  place  to  rest  in  ;  if  you  liked  to  get  out 
of  the  carriage,  I'd  make  you  comfortable  here  in  no  time." 

I  was  quite  Avilling ;  so  he  ran  olf  and  fetched  an  old 
horse-rug,  which  he  laid  upon  the  soft,  dry  mass.  Then 
he  helped  me  thither,  and  covered  me  Avith  my  cloak.  Ly- 
ing thus,  Avith  my  hat  OA^er  my  eyes,  just  distinguishing  the 
shiny  glimmer  of  the  Avon  running  beloAv,  and  beyond  that 
the  green,  level  Ham,  dotted  Avith  coavs,  my  position  Avas 
anything  but  unpleasant.  In  fact,  positively  agreeable — 
ay,  even  though  the  tan-yard  was  close  behind  ;  but  here 
it  would  offend  none  of  my  senses. 


M 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  33 

"  Are  you  comfortable,  Phineas  ?  " 

"Very,  if  you  would  come  and  sit  clown  too." 

"That  I  will." 

And  then  we  began  to  talk.  T  asked  him  if  he  c/ten 
patronized  the  bark-heap,  he  seemed  so  very  much  at  home 
there. 

"So  I  am/'  he  answered,  smiling  ;  "  it  is  my  castle — my 
house. " 

"And  not  unpleasant  to  live  at,  either." 

"  Except  when  it  rains.  Does  it  always  rain  at  Norton 
Bury  ?  " 

"For  shame,  John!"  and  I  pohited  to  the  bluest  of 
autumnal  skies,  though  in  the  distance  an  afternoon  mist 
was  slowly  creeping  on. 

"  All  very  fine  now,  but  there's  a  fog  coming  over  Severn  •, 
and  it  is  sure  to  rain  at  nightf<ill.  I  shall  not  get  my  nice 
little  bit  of  October  evening." 

"  You  must  spend  it  within  doors  then."  John  shook 
his  head.  "'  You  ought ;  it  must  be  dreadfully  cold  on  this 
bark-heap  after  sunset." 

"Rather,  sometimes.     Are  you  cold  now  ?     Shall  I  fetch 

but  I  haven't  anything  fit  to  wrap  you  in,  except 

this  rug." 

He  muffled  it  closer  round  me  ;  infinitely  light  and  tender 
was  his  rough-looking  boy's  hand. 

"  I  never  saw  anybody  so  thin  as  you  ;  thinner  much 
since  I  saw  you.  Have  you  been  very,  very  ill,  Phineas  ? 
What  ailed  you  ?  " 

His  anxiety  was  so  earnest,  that  I  explained  to  him  Avhat 
I  may  as  well  explain  here,  and  dismiss,  once  for  all,  the 
useless  topic,  that  from  my  birth  I  had  been  puny  and  dis- 
eased, that  my  life  had  been  a  succession  of  sicknesses  and 
•that  I  could  hope  for  little  else  until  the  end. 

"  But  don't  think  I  mind  it,  John,"  for  I  was  grieved  to 
see  his  shocked  and  troubled  look.  "  I  am  very  content ;  I 
have  a  quiet  home,  a  good  father,  and  now  I  think  and 
believe  I  have  found  the  one  thing  I  wanted — a  good 
friend. " 

He  smiled,   but  only  because  I  did.      I  saw  he  did  not 
3 


34  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

anderstand  me.  In  him,  as  in  most  strong  and  self-con- 
tained temperaments,  was  a  certain  slowness  to  receive 
impressions,  which,  however,  being  once  received,  are  in- 
delible. Though  I,  being  in  so  many  things  his  opposite, 
had  none  of  this  peculiarity,  but  felt  at  once  quickly  and 
keenly,  yet  I  rather  liked  the  contrary  in  him,  as  I  think  we 
almost  always  do  like  in  another  those  peculiarities  which 
are  most  different  from  our  own.  Therefore  I  was  neither 
vexed  nor  hurt  because  the  lad  Avas  slow  to  perceive  all  that 
he  had  so  soon  become,  and  all  that  I  meant  him  to  become, 
to  me.  I  knew,  from  every  tone  of  his  voice,  every  chance 
expression  of  his  honest  eyes,  that  he  was  one  of  those  char- 
acters in  which  we  may  be  sure  that  for  each  feeling  they 
express,  lies  a  countless  wealth  of  the  same,  unexpressed 
below  ;  a  character  the  keystone  of  which  was  that  whereon 
is  built  all  liking  and  all  love — dependableness.  He  was  one 
whom  you  may  be  long  in  knowing,  but  whom  the  more 
you  know,  the  more  you  trust ;  and  once  trusting,  you  trust 
forever. 

Perhaj)s  I  may  be  supposed  imaginative,  or,  at  least,  pre- 
mature in  discovering  all  these  characteristics  in  a  boy  of 
fourteen  ;  and  possibly  in  thus  writing  of  him,  I  may  un- 
wittingly be  drawing  a  little  from  after-experience  ; — how- 
ever, being  the  truth,  let  it  stand. 

''  Come,"  said  I,  changing  the  conversation,  "  we  have 
had  enough  of  me  ;  how  goes  the  world  with  you  ?  Have 
you  taken  kindly  to  the  tan-yard  ?     Answer  frankly." 

He  looked  at  me  hard,  put  both  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  began  to  Avhistle  a  tune. 

"  Don't  shirk  the  question,  please,  John.  I  want  to  know 
the  real  truth." 

"  Well,  then,  I  hate  the  tan-yard." 

Having  relieved  his  mind  by  this  ebullition  and  by  kick- 
ing a  small  heap  of  tan  right  down  into  the  river,  he  be- 
came composed. 

"  But,  Phineas,  don't  imagine  I  intend  to  hate  it  always. 
I  intend  to  get  used  to  it,  as  many  a  better  fellow  than  I 
has  got  used  to  many  a  worse  thing.  It's  wicked  to  hate 
what  wins  one's  bread,  and  is  the  only  thing  one  is  likely 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  35 

to  get  oil  in  tlio  world  with,  merely  because  it's  disagree- 
able." 

''You  arc  a  wise  lad  of  your  age,  John.'' 

"Now  don't  you  be  laughing  at  me.'^  (But  I  was  not, 
I  was  in  solemn  earnest.)  "And  don't  think  I'm  worse 
than  I  am  ;  and  especially  that  I'm  not  thaiikful  to  your 
good  father  for  giving  me  a  lift  in  the  world — the  first  I 
ever  really  had.  If  I  get  one  foot  on  the  ladder,  perhaps, 
I  may  climb." 

•  "  I  should  rather  believe  so,"  answered  I,  very  confi- 
dently. "  But  you  seem  to  have  thought  a  good  deal  about 
these  sort  of  things." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  have  plenty  of  time  for  thinking,  and  one's 
thoughts  travel  fast  enough,  lying  on  this  bark-heap — 
faster  than  in-doors.  I  often  Avish  I  could  read — that  is, 
read  easily.  As  it  is,  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  think, 
and  nothing  to  think  of  but  myself,  and  what  I  should  like 
to  be." 

"  Suppose,  after  Dick  Whittington's  fashion,  you  suc- 
ceeded to  3^our  master's  business,  should  you  like  to  be 
a  tanner  ?  " 

He  paused — his  truthful  face  betraying  him.  Then  he 
said,  resolutely,  "  I  would  like  to  be  anything  that  was 
honest  and  honorable.  It's  a  notion  of  mine,  that  what- 
ever a  man  may  be,  his  trade  does  not  make  him — he 
makes  his  trade.  That  is — but  I  know  I  can't  j^ut  the  sub- 
ject clea,r,  for  I  have  not  got  it  clear  in  my  own  head  yet — 
I'm  only  a  lad.  However,  it  all  comes  to  this — that  whether 
I  like  it  or  not,  I'll  stick  to  the  tanning  as  long  as  I  can." 

"That's  right;  I'm  so  glad.  Nevertheless" — and  I 
watched  him  as  he  stood,  his  foot  planted  firmly,  no  easy 
feat  on  the  shifting  bark-heap,  his  head  erect,  and  his 
mouth  close,  but  smiling — "  Nevertheless,  John,  it's  my 
opinion  that  you  might  be  anything  you  liked." 

He  laughed.  "  Questionable  that — at  least  at  present. 
Whatever  I  may  be,  I  am  just  now  the  lad  that  drives  your 
father's  cart,  and  works  in  your  father's  tan-yard — Joim 
Halifax,  and  very  much,  at  your  service,  Mr.  Phineas 
Fletcher." 


36  JOHN^    HALIFAX. 

Half  in  fun,  half  in  earnest,  he  nncovered  his  fair  locks, 
with  a  bow  so  contradictory  to  the  rest  of  his  appearance, 
that  I  involuntarily  recalled  the  Greek  Testament  and  "  Guy 
Halifax,  Gentleman."  However,  that  could  be  no  matter 
to  me,  or  to  him  either,  now.  The  lad,  like  many  another, 
owed  nothing  to  his  father  but  his  mere  existence — heaven 
knows  whether  that  gift  is  oftenest  a  curse  or  a  boon. 

The  afternoon  had  waned  during  our  talk  ;  but  I  was 
very  loth  to  part  with  my  friend.  Suddenly,  I  thought  of 
asking  where  his  home  was. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Where  do  you  live  ?  where  do  you  take  your  meals  and 
sleep  ?" 

"•'  Why,  as  to  that,  I  have  not  much  time  for  eating  and 
drinking.  Generally,  I  eat  my  dinner  as  I  go  along  the 
road,  where  there's  lots  of  blackberries  by  way  of  pudding 
— which  is  grand  !  Supper  when  I  do  get  it,  I  like  best  on 
this  bark-heap,  after  the  men  are  away,  and  the  tan-yard's 
clear.     Your  father  lets  me  stay." 

"  And  where  is  your  lodging,  then  ?  Where  do  you 
sleep  ?" 

He  hesitated — colored  a  little.  "  To  tell  the  truth — any- 
where I  can.     Generally  here." 

"  What,  out-of-doors  ?  " 

"Just  so." 

I  was  much  shocked.  To  sleep  out-of-doors  seemed  to 
me  the  very  lov/est  ebb  of  human  misery  :  so  degrading, 
too — like  a  common  tramp  or  vagabond,  instead  of  a  decent 
lad. 

"  John — how  can  you — why  do  you — do  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  he,  sitting  down  beside  me  in  a 
dogged  way,  as  if  he  had  read  my  thoughts,  guessed  at  my 
suspicions,  and  was  determined  to  show  that  he  feared 
neither — that  he  would  used  his  own  Judgment,  and  follow 
his  own  will,  in  spite  of  anybody.  "  Look  here.  I  get 
three  shillings  a  week,  which  is  about  fivepence  a  day  ;  out 
of  that,  I  eat  three  pence — Fm  a  big,  growing  lad,  and  it's 
hard  to  be  hungry.  There's  two  pence  left  to  pay  for  lodg- 
ing.    I  tried  it  once — twice — at  the  decentest  place  I  could 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  37 

fiud,  but — "  here  uii  expression  of  intolerable  disgust  came 
over  the  boy's  face — -"  I  don't  intend  to  try  that  again.  I 
was  never  used  to  it.  Better  keep  my  own  company  and 
the  open  air.     Now,  you  see/' 

"  Oh,  John  !  " 

"  Nay — there's  no  need  to  be  sorry.  You  don't  know 
how  comfortable  it  is  to  sleep  out  of  doors  ;  and  so  nice  to 
wake  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  see  the  stars  shining 
over  your  head." 

''  But  isn't  it  very  cold  ?  " 

"No — not  often.  I  scoop  out  a  snug  little  nest  in  the 
bark,  and  curl  up  iu  it  like  a  dormouse,  wrapped  in  this  rug, 
which  one  of  the  men  gave  me.  Besides,  every  morning 
early  I  take  a  plunge  and  a  swim  in  the  stream,  and  that 
makes  me  warm  all  day." 

I  shivered — I  who  feared  the  touch  of  cold  water.  Yet 
there,  with  all  his  hardships,  he  stood  before  me,  the  model 
of  healthy  boyhood.     Alas  !  I  envied  him. 

But  this  trying  life,  which  he  made  so  light  of,  could  not 
go  on.     "  What  shall  you  do  when  winter  comes  ?  " 

John  looked  grave.  "  I  don't  know  :  I  suppose  I  shall 
manage  somehow — like  the  sparrows,"  he  answered,  per- 
ceiving not  how  apposite  his  illustration  Avas.  For  truly  he 
seemed  as  destitute  as  the  birds  of  the  air,  whom  One  feed- 
eth  when  they  cry  to  Him. 

My  question  had  evidently  made  him  thoughtful  ;  he  re- 
mained silent  a  good  while. 

At  last  I  said — "  John,  do  you  remember  the  woman  who 
spoke  so  sharply  to  you  in  the  alley  that  day  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  shall  never  forget  anything  which  happened 
that  day,"  he  answered  softly. 

"'  She  was  my  nurse  once.  She  is  not  such  a  bad  woman, 
though  trouble  has  sharpened  her  temper.  Her  biggest  boy. 
Bill,  Avho  is  gone  off  for  a  soldier,  used  to  drive  your  cart, 
you  know." 

"  Yes  ?"  said  John,  interrogatively  :  for  I  was  slow  in 
putting  forth  m}^  plans — that  is,  as  much  of  them  as  it  was 
needful  he  should  know. 

'■  Sally  is  poor — not  so  very  poor,  though.     Your    two 


38  JOHN    HALIFAX, 

pence  a  night  would  help  her  ;  and  I  dare  say,  if  you'll  let 
me  speak  to  her,  you  might  have  Bill's  attic  all  to  yourself. 
She  has  but  one  other  lad  at  home  ;  it's  worth  trying  for." 

"  It  is,  indeed.  You  are  very  kind,  Phineas."  He 
said  no  more  words  than  these — but  their  tone  spoke 
volumes. 

I  got  into  my  little  carriage  again,  for  I  was  most  anxious 
not  to  lose  a  day  in  this  matter.  I  persuaded  John  to  go  at 
once  with  me  to  Sally  Watkins.  My  father  was  not  to  lie 
seen  ;  but  I  ventured  to  leave  word  for  him  that  I  was  gone 
home,  and  had  taken  John  Halifax  with  me  ;  it  was  astonish- 
ing how  bold  I  felt  myself  growing,  now  that  there  was 
another  beside  myself  to  think  and  act  for. 

We  reached  Widow  Watkins'  door.  It  was  a  poor  place — 
poorer  than  I  had  imagined  ;  but  I  remembered  what  agonies 
of  cleanliness  had  been  inflicted  on  me  in  nursery  days,  and 
took  hope  for  John. 

Sally  sat  in  her  kitchen,  tidy  and  subdued,  mending  an 
old  jacket  that  had  once  been  Bill's,  until,  being  supplanted 
by  the  grand  red  coat,  it  descended  upon  Jem,  the  second 
lad.  But  Bill  still  engrossed  the  poor  mother's  heart — she 
could  do  nothing  but  weep  over  him,  and  curse  "Bony- 
party."  Her  mind  was  so  full  of  this,  that  she  apparently 
failed  to  recognize  in  the  decent  young  workman,  John 
Halifax,  the  half-starved  lad  she  had  belabored  with  her 
tongue  in  the  alley.  She  consented  at  once  to  his  lodging 
with  her — though  she  looked  up  with  an  odd  stare  when  I 
said  he  was  "  a  friend  "  of  mine. 

So  we  settled  our  business,  first  all  together,  then  Sally 
and  I  alone,  while  John  Avent  up  to  look  at  his  room.  I 
knew  I  could  trust  Sally,  whom  I  Avas  glad  enough  to  help, 
poor  woman  !  She  promised  to  make  him  extra-comfort- 
able, and  keep  my  secret  too.  When  John  came  down  she 
was  quite  civil  to  him — even  friendly. 

She  said  it  would  really  be  a  comfort  to  her,  that  another 
fine,  strapping  lad  should  sleep  in  Bill's  bed,  and  be  coming 
in  and  out  of  her  house  just  like  her  poor  dear  boy. 

I  felt  rather  doubtful  of  tlie  resemblance,  and,  indeed, 
half-angry,  but  John  only  smiled. 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  39 

*'  And  if,  maybe,  he'd  do  a  hand's  turn  now  and  then 
about  the  kitchen — I  s'pose  he  bean't  above  it  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit ! "  said  John  Halifax,  pleasantly. 

Before  we  left,  I  wanted  to  see  his  room  ;  he  carried  me 
up,  and  we  both  sat  down  on  the  bed  that  had  been  poor 
Bill's.  It  was  nothing  to  boast  of,  being  a  mere  sacking 
stuffed  with  hay — a  blanket  below,  and  another  at  tojj  ;  I 
had  to  beg  from  Jael  the  only  pair  of  sheets  John  owned 
for  a  long  time.  The  attic  was  very  low  and  small,  hardly 
big  enough  "■  to  whip  a  cat  round,"  or  even  a  kitten — yet 
John  gazed  about  it  with  an  air  of  proud  possession. 

"  I  declare  I  shall  be  as  happy  as  a  king.  Only  look  out 
of  the  window." 

Ay,  the  window  was  the  grand  advantage  ;  out  of  it  one 
could  crawl  on  to  the  roof,  and  from  the  roof  was  the  finest 
view  in  all  Norton  Bury.  On  one  side, — the  toAvn,  the 
Abbey,  and  beyond  it  a  wide  stretch  of  meadow  and  wood- 
land as  far  as  you  could  see  ;  on  the  other,  the  broad  Ham. 
the  glittering  curve  of  Severn,  and  the  distant  country, 
sloping  up  into  *'  the  blue  hills  far  away."  A  picture,  which 
in  its  incessant  variety,  its  quiet  beauty,  and  its  inexpress- 
ibly soothing  charm,  was  likely  to  make  the  simple,  every- 
day act  of  "  looking  out  o'  window,"  unconsciously  in- 
fluence the  mind  as  much  as  a  world  of  books. 

"^  Do  you  like  your  'castle,'  John  ?"  said  I,  when  I  had 
silently  watched  his  beaming  face  ;  "  will  it  suit  you  ?" 

"  I  rather  think  it  will  ! "  he  cried  in  hearty  delight. 
And  my  heart  likewise  was  very  glad. 

Dear  little  attic  room  !  close  against  the  sky — so  close, 
that  many  a  time  the  rain  came  pattering  in,  or  the  sun 
beating  down  upon  the  roof  made  it  like  a  furnace,  or  the 
snow  on  the  leads  drifted  so  high  as  to  obscure  the  window 
— yet  how  merry,  how  happy  we  have  been  there  !  How 
often  have  we  both  looked  back  upon  it  in  after  days  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Winter  came  early  and  sudden  that  year. 

It  was  to  me  a  long,  dreary  season,  worse  even  tnan  mj 
winters  inevitably  were.  I  never  stirred  from  my  room, 
and  never  saw  anybody  but  my  father.  Dr.  Jessop,  and  Jael. 
At  last  I  took  courage  to  say  to  the  former,  that  I  wished 
he  would  send  John  Halifax  up  some  day. 

"  What  dost  thee  want  the  lad  for  '^" 

''Only  to  see  him." 

"  Pshaw  !  a  lad  out  o'  the  tan-yard  is  not  lit  company  for 
thee.  Let  him  alone  ;  hell  do  well  enough,  if  thee  doesn^t 
try  to  lift  him  out  of  his  place." 

Lift  John  Halifax  out  of  his  ''place  ! "  I  agreed  with  my 
father  that  that  was  impossible  ;  but  then  we  evidently  dif- 
fered widely  in  our  definition  of  what  the  ' '  place  "  might  be. 
So,  afraid  of  doing  him  harm,  and  feeling  how  much  his 
future  depended  on  his  favor  with  his  master,  I  did  not  dis- 
cuss the  matter.  Only  at  every  possible  opportunity — and 
they  were  rare — I  managed  to  send  John  a  little  note,  written 
carefully  in  printed  letters,  for  I  knew  he  could  read  that ; 
also  a  book  or  two,  out  of  which  he  might  teach  himself  a 
little  more. 

Then  I  waited,  eagerly  but  patiently,  until  spring  came, 
when,  without  making  anymore  fruitless  efforts,  I  should  be 
sure  to  see  him.  I  knew  enough  of  himself,  and  was  too 
jealous  over  his  dignity,  to  wish  either  to  force  him  by  en- 
treaties,  or  bring  him  by  stratagem,  into  a  house  where  he 
was  not  welcome,  even  though  it  were  the  house  of  my  own 
father. 

One  February  day,  when  the  frost  had  at  last  broken  up, 
and  soft,  plentiful  rain  had  half  melted  the  great  snow-drifts, 
which,  Jael  told  me,  lay  about  the  country  everywhere — ] 
thought  I  would  just  put  my  head  out  of  doors,  to  see  how 

"  40 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  41 

long  the  blessed  spirit  woiild  be  in  coming.  So  I  crawled 
down  into  the  parlor,  and  out  of  the  parlor  into  the  garden  ; 
Jael  scolding,  my  father  roughly  encouraging.  My  poor 
father  !  he  always  had  the  belief  that  people  need  not  be  ill 
unless  they  chose,  and  that  I  could  do  a  great  deal  if  I 
would. 

I  felt  very  strong  to-day.  It  Avas  delicious  to  see  again 
the  green  grass,  which  had  been  hidden  for  weeks  ;  delicious 
to  walk  up  and  down  in  the  sunshine,  under  the  shelter  of 
the  yew  hedge.  I  amused  myself  by  watching  a  pale  line 
of  snow-drojis  which  hud  come  up  one  by  one,  like  prisoners 
of  war  to  their  execution. 

But  the  next  minute  I  felt  ashamed  of  the  heartless  simile, 
for  it  reminded  me  of  j)oor  Bill  Watkins,  who,  taken  after 
the  battle  of  Mentz,  last  December,  had  been  shot  by  the 
French  as  a  spy.  Poor,  rosy,  burly  Bill  !  better  had  he  still 
been  ingloriously  driving  our  cart  of  skins. 

"  Have  you  been  to  see  Sally  lately  ?  "  said  I,  to  Jacl,  wlio 
was  cutting  winter  cabbages  hard  by  ;  "  i&  she  getting  over 
her  trouble  ?  " 

'SShe  bean't  rich,  to  afford  fretting.  There's  Jem  and 
three  little  'uns  yet  to  feed,  to  say  nought  of  another  big  lad 
as  lives  there,  and  eats  a  deal  more  than  he  pays,  I'm  sure." 

I  took  the  insinuation  quietly,  for  I  knew  that  my  father 
had  lately  raised  John^s  wages,  and  he  his  rent  to  Sally. 
This,  together  with  a  few  other  facts  which  lay  between 
Sally  and  me,  made  me  quite  easy  in  the  mind  as  to  his 
being  no  burthen,  but  rather  a  help  to  the  widow — so  I 
let  Jael  have  her  say  ;  it  did  no  harm  to  me  or  anybody. 

"  What  bold  little  things  snowdrops  are — stop,  Jael,  yon 
are  setting  your  foot  on  them." 

But  I  was  too  late ;  she  had  crushed  them  under  the 
high-heeled  shoe.  She  was  even  near  pulling  me  down,  as 
she  stepped  back  in  great  hurry  and  consternation. 

"  Look  at  that  young  gentleman  coming  down  the  garden  ; 
and  here  I  be  in  my  dirty  gown,  and  my  apron  full  o^  cab- 
bages." 

And  she  dropped  the  vegetables  all  over  the  path,  as  the 
"  gentleman  "  came  towards  us. 


42  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

I  smiled — for,  in  spite  of  his  transformation,  I,  at  least, 
had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  John  Halifax. 

He  had  on  new  clothes — let  me  give  the  credit  due  to 
that  wonderful  civilizer,  the  tailor — clothes  neat,  decent,  and 
plain,  such  as  any  'prentice  lad  might  wear.  They  fitted 
well  his  figure,  which  had  increased  both  in  height,  compact- 
ness, and  grace.  Round  his  neck  was  a  coarse  but  white 
shirt  frill ;  and  over  it  fell,  carefully  arranged,  the  bright 
curls  of  his  bonny  hair.  Easily  might  Jael  or  any  one  else 
have  "  mistaken  "  him,  as  she  cuttingly  said,  for  a  young 
gentleman. 

She  looked  very  indigant,  though,  when  she  found  out 
the  aforesaid  "  mistake." 

"  What  may  be  thy  business  here  ?"  she  said,  roughly. 

"Abel  Fletcher  sent  me  on  a  message." 

"  Out  with  it  then — don't  be  stopping  with  Phineas  here. 
Thee  bean^t  company  for  him,  and  his  father  don't  choose 
it." 

"  Jael  !  "  I  cried,  indignantly.  John  never  spoke,  but 
his  cheek  burnt  furiously.  I  took  his  hand,  and  told  him 
how  glad  I  was  to  see  him — but,  for  a  minute^  I  doubt  if  he 
heard  me. 

"  Abel  Fletcher  sent  me  here,"  he  repeated,  in  a  well-con- 
trolled voice,  "  that  I  might  go  out  with  Phineas ;  if  he 
objects  to  my  company,  it's  easy  to  say  so." 

And  he  turned  to  me. — I  think  he  must  have  been  satis- 
fied then. 

Jael  retired  discomfited,  and  in  her  wrath  again  dropped 
half  of  her  cabbages.  John  picked  them  up  and  restored 
them  ;  but  got  for  thanks  only  a  parting  thrust. 

"  Thee  art  mighty  civil  in  thy  new  clothes — Be  off,  and 
be  back  again  sharp  ;  and,  I  say,  don't  thee  be  leaving  the 
cart  o'  skins  again  under  the  parlor  windows." 

"  I  don't  drive  the  cart  now,"  was  all  he  replied. 

"  Not  drive  the  cart  ?  "  I  asked,  eagerly,  when  Jael  had 
disappeared,  for  I  was  afraid  some  ill  chance  had  happened. 

"  Only,  that  this  winter  I've  managed  to  teach  myself  to 
read  and  add  up,  out  of  your  books,  yon  know  ;  and  your 
father  found  it  out,  and  he  says  I  shall  go  round  collecting 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  43 

money  instead  of  skins,  and  it's  much  better  wages,  and — I 
like  it  better,  that's  all/' 

But,  little  as  he  said,  his  whole  face  beamed  with  pride 
and  pleasure.     It  was,  in  truth,  a  great  step  forward. 

"  He  must  trust  you  very  much,  John,"  said  I,  at  last, 
knowing  how  exceedingly  j)articular  my  father  was  in  his 
collectors. 

"That's  it — that's  what  pleases  me  so.  He  is  very  good 
to  me,  Phineas,  and  he  gave  me  a  special  holiday,  that  I 
might  go  out  with  you.     Isn't  that  grand  ?" 

"  Grand,  indeed.  What  fun  we'll  have  !  I  almost  think 
I  could  take  a  walk  myself." 

For  the  lad's  company  invariably  gave  me  new  life,  and 
strength,  and  hope.  The  very  sight  of  him  was  as  good  as 
the  coming  of  spring. 

"■  Where  shall  we  go  ?"  said  he,  when  we  were  fairly  off, 
and  he  was  guiding  my  carriage  down  Norton  Bury  streets. 

"  I  think  to  the  Mythe."  The  Mythe  was  a  little  hill  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  breezy  and  fresh,  where  'Squire 
Brithwood  had  built  himself  a  fine  house,  ten  years  ago. 

"  Ay,  that  will  do  ;  and  as  we  go,  you  will  see  the  floods 
out — a  wonderful  sight,  isn't  it  ?  The  river  is  rising  still,  I 
hear  ;  at  the  tan-yard  they  are  busy  making  a  dam  against 
it.     How  high  are  the  floods  here,  generally,  Phineas  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  remember.  But  don't  look  so  serious. 
Let  us  enjoy  ourselves." 

And  I  did  enjoy,  intensely,  that  pleasant  stroll.  The 
mere  sunshine  was  delicious  ;  delicious,  too,  to  pause  on  the 
bridge  at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  and  feel  the  breeze 
brought  in  by  the  rising  waters,  and  hear  the  loud  sound 
of  them,  as  they  poured  in  a  cataract  over  the  flood-gates 
hard  by. 

"Your  lazy,  muddy  Avon  looks  splendid  now.  What 
masses  of  white  foam  it  makes,  and  what  wreaths  of  spray, 
and  see  !  ever  so  much  of  the  Ham  is  under  water.  How 
it  sparkles  in  the  sun." 

"  John,  you  like  looking  at  anything  pretty." 

"  Ah  !  don't  I  I "  cried  he,  with  his  whole  heart.  My 
heart  leaped  too,  to  see  him  so  happy. 


44  JOHlNT    HALIFAX. 

'^' You  can't  think  liow  fine  this  is  from  my  window  ;  I 
have  watched  it  for  a  week.  Every  morning  the  water 
seems  to  have  made  itself  a  fresh  channeh  Look  at  that 
one,  by  the  willow-tree — how  savagely  it  j^onrs  ! " 

"  Oh,  we  at  Norton  Bury  are  used  to  floods." 

"  Are  they  ever  very  serious  ?  " 

"  Have  been — but  not  in  my  time.  Now,  John,  tell  me 
what  yoii  have  been  doing  all  winter." 

It  was  a  brief  and  simple  chronicle — of  hard  work,  all 
day  over,  and  from  the  Monday  to  the  Saturday— too  hard 
work  to  do  anything  of  nights,  save  to  drop  into  the  sound, 
dreamless  sleep  of  youth  and  labor. 

"  But  how  did  you  teach  yourself  to  read  and  add-up, 
then?" 

"  Generally,  at  odd  minutes  going  along  the  road.  It's 
astonishing  what  a  lot  of  odd  minutes  one  can  catch  during 
the  day,  if  one  really  sets  about  it.  And  then  I  had  Sun- 
day afternoons  besides — I  did  not  think  it  wrong- 


ii 


No,"  said  I,  decisively.     ''What  books  have  you  got 
through  ? '' 

"  All  you  sent — Pilgrim^s  Progress,  Eobinson  Crusoe, 
and  the  Arabian  Nights.  That's  fine,  isn't  it  ?  "  and  his 
eyes  sparkled. 

"  Any  more  ?  " 

"  Also  the  one  you  gave  me  at  Christmas.  I  have  read 
it  a  good  deal." 

I  liked  the  tone  of  quiet  reverence  in  which  he  spoke. 
I  liked  to  hear  him  own,  nor  be  ashamed  to  own — that  he 
read  '■'  a  good  deal  "  in  that  rare  book  for  a  boy  to  read — 
the  Bible. 

But  on  this  subject  I  did  not  ask  him  any  more  ques- 
tions ;  indeed,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  seems  still,  that  no 
more  were  needed. 

"  And  you  can  read  quite  easily  now,  John  ?" 

"  Pretty  well,  considering."  Then,  turning  suddenly  to 
me  :  "  You  read  a  great  deal,  don't  you  ?  I  overheard 
your  father  say  you  were  very  clever.  How  much  do  you 
know  ?  " 

Oh — nonsense  !  "     V>vX  he  pressed  me,  and  I  told  him. 


(< 


JOH]sr    HALIFAX.  45 

The  list  was  short  enuugli ;  I  uhuost  wished  it  were  shorter; 
when  I  saw  Johu's  face. 

"  For  lue — I  can  only  just  read,  and  I  shall  be  fifteen 
directly  ! " 

The  accent  of  shanie,  despondency,  even  desjaair,  went 
to  my  very  heart. 

"Don't  mind,"  I  said,  laying  my  feeble,  useless  hand 
upon  that  which  guided  me  on,  so  steady  and  so  strong  ; 
"  how  could  you  have  had  time,  working  as  hard  as  you 
do?" 

"  But  I  ought  to  learn  ;  I  must  learn." 

"  You  shall.  It's  little  I  can  teach  ;  but,  if  you  like,  I'll 
teach  you  all  I  know." 

"  0  Phineas  ! "  One  flash  of  those  bright,  moist  eyes, 
and  he  walked  hastily  across  the  road.  Thence  he  came 
back,  in  a  minute  or  two,  armed  with  the  tallest,  straight- 
est  of  briar-rose  shoots. 

"  You  like  a  rose-switch,  don't  you  ?— I  do.  Nay,  stop 
till  I've  cut  ofl"  the  thorns."  And  he  walked  on  beside  me, 
working  at  it  with  his  knife  in  silence. 

I  was  silent,  too,  but  I  stole  a  glance  at  his  mouth,  as 
seen  in  profile.  I  could  almost  always  guess  at  histhouglits 
by  that  mouth,  so  flexible,  sensitive,  and,  at  times,  so  infi- 
nitely sweet.  It  wore  that  expression  now.  I  was  satisfied, 
for  I  knew  the  lad  was  happy. 

We  reached  the  Mythe.  "  David,"  I  said  (I  had  got 
into  a  habit  of  calling  him  "  David  ; "  and  now  he  had  read 
a  certain  history  in  that  Book,  I  supposed  he  had  g-uessed 
why,  for  he  liked  the  name),  "I  don't  think  I  can  go  any 
further  up  the  hill." 

"  Oh  !  but  you  shall ! — I'll  push  behind  ;  and  when  we 
come  to  the  stile,  I'll  carry  you.  It's  lovely  on  the  top  of 
the  Mythe, — look  at  the  sunset.  You  cannot  have  seen  a 
sunset  for  ever  so  long." 

No — that  was  true.  I  let  John  do  as  he  would  with  me 
— he  who  brought  into  my  pale  life  the  only  brightness  it 
had  ever  known. 

Ere  long,  we  stood  on  the  top  of  the  steep  mound.  I 
know  not  if  it  be  a  natural  hill,  or  one  of  those  old  Eoraarj 


46  JOHK    HALIFAX. 

or  British  remains,  plentiful  enough  hereabouts,  but  it  was 
always  called  the  Mythe.  Close  below  it,  at  the  foot  of  a 
precipitous  slojDe,  ran  the  Severn,  there  broad  and  deep 
enough,  and  gradually  growing  broader  and  deeper  as  it 
flowed  on,  through  a  wide  plain  of  level  country,  towards 
the  line  of  hills  that  bounded  the  horizon.  Severn  looked 
beautiful  here  ;  neither  grand  nor  striking,  but  certainly 
beautiful ;  a  calm,  gracious,  generous  river,  bearing  strength 
in  its  tide  and  jjienty  in  its  bosom,  rolling  on  through  the 
land  slowly  and  surely,  like  a  good  man's  life,  and  fertiliz- 
ing wherever  it  flows. 

"Do  you  like  Severn  still,  John  ?" 

"Hove  if 

I  wondered  if  his  thoughts  had  been  anything  like  mine. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  cried,  suddenly,  pointing  to  a  new 
sight,  which  even  I  had  not  often  seen  on  our  river.  It 
was  a  mass  of  water,  three  or  four  feet  high,  which  came 
surging  along  the  mid-stream,  upright  as  a  wall. 

"It  is  the  eger  ;  I've  often  seen  it  on  Severn,  where  the 
swift  seaward  current  meets  the  spring-tide.  Look  what  a 
crest  of  foam  it  has,  like  a  wild  boar's  name.  We  often 
call  it  the  river-boar," 

"  But  it  is  only  a  big  wave." 

"  Big  enough  to  swamp  a  boat,  though." 

And  while  I  spoke,  I  saw,  to  my  horror,  that  there  ac- 
tually was  a  boat,  with  two  men  in  it,  trying  to  get  out  of 
the  way  of  the  eger. 

"  They  never  can  !  they'll  assuredly  be  drowned  !  0, 
John  ! " 

But  he  had  already  slipped  from  my  side,  and  swung  him- 
self by  furze-bushes  and  grass  down  the  steep  slope  to  the 
water's  edge. 

It  was  a  breathless  moment.  The  eger  travelled  slowly 
in  its  passage,  changing  the  smooth,  sparkling  river  to  a 
whirl  of  conflicting  currents,  in  which  no  boat  could  live — 
least  of  all,  that  light  pleasure-boat,  with  its  toppling  sail. 
In  it  was  a  youth  I  knew  by  sight,  Mr.  Brithwood  of  the 
Mythe  House,  and  another  gentleman. 

They  both  pulled  hard — they  got  out  of  the  mid-stream. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  47 

but  not  close  enough  to  land  ;  and  already  there  was  but 
two  oars'  lengtli  between  them  and  the  "  boar." 

"  Swim  for  it  !  "  I  heard  one  cry  to  the  other  :  ]:)ut  swim- 
ming wovild  not  have  saved  them. 

"  Hold  there  ! "  shouted  John  at  tlio  top  of  his  voice ; 
*'  throw  that  rope  out,  and  I  will  pull  you  in  ! " 

It  was  a  hard  tug  :  I  shuddered  to  see  him  wade,  knee- 
deep,  in  the  stream — but  he  succeeded.  Both  gentlemen 
leaped  safe  on  shore.  The  younger  tried  desperately  to  save 
his  boat,  but  it  was  too  late.  Already  the  "water-boar" 
had  clutched  it — the  rope  broke  like  a  gossamer-thread — 
the  trim,  white  sail  was  dragged  down — rose  up  once,  broken 
and  torn,  like  a  butterfly  caught  in  a  mill-stream — tbeu 
disajipeared. 

"  So  it's  all  over  with  her,  poor  thing  !  " 

"Who  cares?     We  might  have  lost  our  lives,"  sliarply 
said   the   other,    an   older   and   sickly-looking   gentleman, 
dressed  in  mourning,  to  whom  life  did  not  seem  a  particu 
larly  pleasant   thing,    though  he  appeared   to  value  it   so 
higidy. 

They  both  scrambled  up  the  Mytlie,  without  noticing 
John  Halifax  :  then  the  elder  turned. 

"  But  who  pulled  us  ashore  ?  Was  it  you,  my  young 
friend  ?  " 

John  Halifax,  emptying  his  soaked  boots,  answered,  "  I 
suppose  so." 

"Indeed,  we  owe  you  much." 

"Not  more  than  a  crown  Avill  pay,"  said  young  Brith- 
wood,  gruffly;  "I  know  him.  Cousin  March.  He  works 
in  Fletcher  the  Quaker's  tan-yard  ! " 

"  Nonsense  ! "  cried  Mr.  March,  who  had  stood  looking 
at  the  boy  with  a  kindly,  even  half -sad  air.  "  Impossible. 
Young  man,  will  you  tell  me  to  whom  I  am  so  much 
obliged  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  John  Halifax.'* 

**  Yes  ;  but  tohat  are  you  ?  " 

"  What  he  said.  Mr.  Brithwood  knows  me  well  enough. 
I  work  in  the  tan -yard." 

Oh  ! "     Mr.  March  turned  away  with  a  resumption  of 


i( 


48  J0H2n"    HALIFAX. 

dignity,  though  evidently  both  surprised  and  disappointed. 
Young  Brithwood  hiughed. 

"  I  told  you  so,  cousin.  Hey,  lad  !  "  eyeing  John  over, 
"you've  been  out  at  grass,  and  changed  your  coat  for  the 
better  :  but  you're  certainly  the  same  lad  that  my  curricle 
nearly  ran  over  one  day  ;  you  were  driving  -i  cart  of  skins 
--pah  !  I  remember." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  John,  fiercely  ;  but  when  the  youth's 
Insolent  laughter  broke  out  again,  he  controlled  himself. 
The  laughter  ceased. 

"  Well,  you've  done  me  a  good  turn  for  an  ill  one,  young 
— what's-your-name,  so  here's  a  guinea  for  you."'  Rethrew 
it  towards  him  ;  it  fell  on  the  ground,  and  lay  there. 

"  jSTay,  nay,  Richard,"  expostulated  the  sickly  gentleman, 
who,  after  all,  was  a  gentleman.  He  stood,  apparently 
struggling  with  conflicting  intentions,  and  ]iot  very  easy  in 
his  mind.  "  My  good  fellow,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  con- 
strained voice,  '''  I  won't  forget  your  bravery.  If  I  could 
do  anything  for  you — and,  meanwhile,  if  a  trifle  like  this," 
and  he  slipped  something  into  John's  hand. 

John  returned  it  with  a  bow,  merely  saying,  "  That  he 
would  rather  not  take  any  money." 

The  gentleman  looked  very  much  astonished.  There  was 
a  little  more  of  persistence  on  one  side,  and  resistance  on 
the  other ;  and  then  Mr.  March  put  the  guineas  irresolutely 
back  into  his  pocket,  looking  the  while  lingeringly  at  the 
boy — at  his  tall  figure,  and  flushed,  proud  face. 

"How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Fifteen,  nearly. " 

"Ah  ! "  it  was  almost  a  sigh.  He  turned  away,  and 
turned  back  again.  "  My  name  is  March — Henry  March  ; 
if  you  should  ever " 

"' Thank  )''ou,  sir.     Good-day." 

"^  Good-day."  1  fancied  he  was  half- inclined  to  shake 
hands — but  John  did  not,  or  would  not,  see  it.  Mr.  March 
walked  on,  following  young  Brithv/ood  ;  but  at  the  stile  he 
turned  round  once  more,  and  glanced  at  John.  Then  they 
disappeared. 

"I'm  glad  they  arc-  guue  :  now  we  can  be  comfortable." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  49 

He  flung  himself  down,  wrung  out  his  wet  stockings, 
lauglied  at  nie  for  being  so  afraid  he  would  take  cold,  and 
so  angry  at  young  Brithwood's  insults.  I  sat  wrapped  in 
my  cloak,  and  watched  him  making  idle  circles  in  the  sandy 
path  with  the  rose-switch  he  had  cut. 

A  thought  struck  me.  "John,  hand  me  the  stick,  and 
I'll  give  you  your  first  writing-lesson." 

So  there,  on  the  smooth  gravel,  and  with  the  rose-stem 
for  a  pen,  I  taught  him  how  to  form  the  letters  of  the  al- 
phabet and  join  them  together.  He  learned  them  very 
quickly — so  quickly,  that  in  a  little  while  the  simple  copy- 
book that  jMother  Earth  obliged  us  with,  was  covered  in  all 
directions  witli  "J,  0,  H,  N — John." 

"  Bravo  I  "  he  cried,  as  we  turned  homeward,  he  flourish- 
ing his  gigantic  pen,  which  had  done  such  good  service  ; 
"bravo  !  I  have  gained  something  to-day." 

Crossing  the  bridge  over  the  Avon,  we  stood  once  more 
to  look  at  the  waters  that  were  "out."  They  had  risen 
considerably,  even  in  that  short  time,  and  were  now  pour- 
ing in  several  new  channels,  one  of  which  was  alongside 
of  the  high-road  ;  we  stopped  a  good  while,  watching  it. 
The  current  was  harmless  enough,  merely  flooding  a  part 
of  the  Ham  ;  but  it  awed  us  to  see  the  fierce  power  of  waters 
let  loose.  An  old  willow-tree,  about  whose  roots  I  had  often 
watched  the  king-cups  growing,  was  now  in  the  centre  of  a 
stream  as  broad  as  the  Avon  by  our  tan-yard,  and  thrice  as 
rapid.  The  torrent  rushed  round  it — impatient  of  the  divi- 
sions its  great  roots  caused — eager  to  undermine  and  tear 
it  up.  Inevitably,  if  the  flood  did  not  abate,  within  a  few 
hours  more  there  would  be  nothing  left  of  the  fine  old 
tree. 

"  I  don't  quite  like  this,"  said  John,  meditatively,  as  his 
quick  eye  swept  down  the  course  of  the  river,  with  the 
houses  and  wharves  that  abutted  on  it,  all  along  one  bank, 
"  Did  you  see  the  waters  thus  high  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I    have  ;    nobody  minds   it  at  Norton 
Bury  ;  it  is  only  the  sudden  thaw,  my  father  says,  and  he 
ought  to  know,  for  he  has  had  plenty  of  experience,  the 
tan-yard  being  so  close  to  the  river." 
4 


50  JOHN"    HALIFAX. 

''I  was  thinking  of  that ;  but  come;,  it  is  getting  cold." 

He  took  me  safe  home,  and  we  parted  cordially — nay, 
affectionately — at  my  own  door. 

"  AVhen  will  you  come  again,  David  ?^' 

"  When  your  father  sends  me." 
•  And  I  felt  that  he  felt  that  our  intercourse  was  always 
to  be  limited  to  this.     Nothing  clandestine,  nothing  ob- 
trusive, was  possible,  even  for  friendship's  sake,  to  John 
Halifax. 

My  father  came  in  late  that  evening ;  he  looked  tired 
and  uneasy,  and  instead  of  going  to  bed,  though  it  was  after 
nine  o'clock,  sat  down  to  his  pipe  in  the  chimney-corner. 

"  Is  the  river  rising  still,  father  ?  Will  it  do  any  harm 
to  the  tan-yard  ?  " 

"  What  dost  thee  know  about  the  tan -yard  ?*' 

*'  Only  John  Halifax  was  saying " 

*^  John  Halifax  had  better  hold  his  tongue." 

I  held  mine. 

My  father  puffed  away  in  silence  till  I  came  to  bid  him 
good-night.  I  think  the  sound  of  my  crutches  on  the 
floor  stirred  him  out  of  a  long  meditation,  in  which  his  ill- 
humor  had  ebbed  away. 

*'  Where  didst  thee  go  out  to-day,  Phineas  ? — thee  and 
the  lad  I  sent." 

"  To  the  My  the  :  "  and  I  told  him  the  incident  that  had 
happened  there.     He  listened  without  reply. 

"  Wasn't  it  a  brave  thing  to  do,  father  ?  " 

"  Um  !  " — and  a  few  meditative  jDuffs.  "  Phineas,  the 
lad  thee  hast  such  a  hankering  after,  is  a  good  lad — a  very 
decent  lad — if  thee  doesn't  make  too  much  of  him.  Ee- 
member,  he  is  but  my  servant ;  thee'rt  my  son — my  only 


son." 


Alas  !  my  poor  father,  it  was  hard  enough  for  him  to 
have  such  an  "  only  son  "  as  I. 

In  tha  middle  of  the  night — or  else  to  me,  lying  awake, 
it  seemed  so — there  was  a  knocking  at  our  hall-door.  I 
slept  on  the  ground-flat,  in  a  little  room  opposite  the  par- 
lor. Ere  I  could  well  collect  my  thoughts,  I  saw  my  father 
pass,  fully  dressed,  with  a  light  in  his  hand.     And,  man  of 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  51 

peace  though  he  was,  I  was  very  sure  I  saw  in  the  other — 
something  which  always  lay  near  his  strong  box,  at  his  bed's- 
head  at  night.  Because,  ten  years  ago,  a  large  sum  had 
been  stolen  from  him,  and  tlie  burglar  had  gone  free  of 
punishment.  The  law  refused  to  receive  Abel  Fletcher's 
testimony — he  was  "  only  a  Quaker." 

The  knocking  grew  louder,  as  if  the  person  had  no  tinie 
to  hesitate  at  making  a  noise. 

"Who's  there?"  called  out  my  father  ;  and  at  the  an- 
swer he  opened  tlie  front  door,  first  shutting  mine. 

A  minute  afterwards,  I  heard  some  one  in  my  room. 
•'  Phineas,  are  you  here  ? — don't  be  frightened." 

I  was  not — as  soon  as  his  voice  reached  me,  John's  own 
familiar  voice.     "  It's  something  about  the  tan-yard  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  the  waters  are  rising,  and  I  have  come  to  fetch 
your  father  ;  he  may  save  a  good  deal  yet. — I'm  ready,  sir," 
— in  answer  to  a  loud  call. — "Now,  Phineas,  lie  you  down 
again — the  night's  bitter  cold.  Don't  stir — you'll  promise  ? 
— I'll  see  after  your  father." 

They  went  out  of  the  house  together,  and  did  not  return 
the  whole  night. 

That  night,  February  5,  1795,  was  one  long  remembered 
at  Norton  Bury.  Bridges  were  destroyed — boats  carried 
away — houses  inundated,  or  sapped  at  their  foundations. 
The  loss  of  life  was  small,  but  that  of  property  was  very 
great.  Six  hours  did  the  work  of  ruin,  and  then  the  flood 
began  to  turn. 

It  was  a  long  waiting  until  they  came  home — my  father 
and  John.  At  daybreak,  I  saw  them  standing  on  the  door- 
step.    A  blessed  sight ! 

"  0  father  !  my  dear  father  !"  and  I  drew  him  in,  hold- 
ing fast  his  hands — faster  and  closer  than  I  had  done  since 
I  was  a  child.     He  did  not  repel  me. 

"  Thee'rt  up  early,  and  it's  a  cold  morning  for  thee,  my 
son.     Go  back  to  the  fire." 

His  voice  was  gentle  ;  his  ruddy  countenance  pale  ;  two 
strange  things  in  Abel  Fletcher. 

"  Father,  tell  me  what  lias  befallen  thee  ?  " 

"Nothing,  my  son,  save  that  the  Giver  of  all  worldly 


b2  JOHN    HALIFAX, 

goods  has  seen  fit  to  take  back  a  portion  of  mine.  I,  like 
many  another  in  this  town,  am  poorer  by  some  thousands 
tlian  I  went  to  bed  last  night. " 

He  sat  down.  I  knew  he  loved  his  money,  for  it  had 
been  hardly  earned.  I  had  not  thought  he  would  have 
borne  its  loss  so  quietly. 

"  Father,  never  mind  ;  it  might  have  been  worse." 

'-'  Of  a  surety.  I  should  have  lost  everything  I  had  in 
the  world — save  for — Where  is  the  lad  ?  What  art  thee 
standing  outside  for  ?  Come  in,  John,  and  shut  the 
door." 

John  obeyed,  though  without  advancing.  He  was  cold 
and  wet.     I  wanted  him  to  sit  down  b}^  the  fireside. 

"  Ay  !  do,  lad,"  said  my  father  kindly. 

John  came. 

I  stood  betAveen  the  two — afraid  to  ask  what  they  had 
undergone  ;  but  sure,  from  the  old  man's  grave  face,  and 
the  lad^s  bright  one — flushed  all  over  with  that  excitement 
of  danger  so  delicious  to  the  young — that  the  peril  had  not 
been  small. 

"  Jael,"  cried  my  father,  rousing  himself,  "  give  us  some 
breakfast,  the  lad  and  me — we  have  had  a  hard  night's 
work  together." 

Jael  brought  the  mug  of  ale  and  the  bread  and  cheese  ; 
l)ut  either  did  not  or  could  not  notice  that  the  meal  had 
been  ordered  for  more  than  one. 

"  Another  plate,"  said  my  father,  sharply. 

"  The  lad  can  go  into  the  kitchen,  Abel  Fletcher  :  his 
breakfast  is  waiting  there." 

My  father  winced — even  her  master  was  sometimes 
rather  afraid  of  Jael.  But  conscience  or  his  will  con- 
quered. 

"  Woman,  do  as  I  desire.  Bring  another  plate,  and  an- 
other mug  of  ale." 

And  so,  to  Jael's  great  wrath,  and  to  my  great  joy,  John 
Halifax  was  bidden,  and  sat  down  to  the  same  board  as  his 
master.  The  fact  made  an  ineffaceable  impression  on  our 
household. 

After  breakfast,  as  we  sat  by  the  fire,  in  the  pale  haze  of 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  53 

that  February  morning,  my  father,  contrary  to  his  wont, 
explained  to  me  all  his  losses  ;  and  liow,  but  for  the  timely 
warning  he  had  received,  the  flood  might  have  nearly 
ruined  him, 

"  So  it  was  well  John  came/'  I  said,  half  afraid  to  say 
more. 

"  Ay,  and  the  lad  has  been  useful,  too  :  it  is  an  old  head 
on  young  shoulders." 

.John  looked  very  proud  of  this  praise,  though  it  was 
grimly  given.  But  directly  after  it,  some  ill  or  suspicious 
thought  seemed  to  come  into  Abel  Fletcher's  mind. 

"  Lad,"  suddenly  turning  round  on  John  Halifax,  "thee 
told  me  thee  saw  the  river  rising,  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
What  was  thee  doing  then,  out  o'  thy  honest  bed  and  thy 
quiet  sleep,  at  eleven  o'clock  at  niglit  ?" 

John  colored  violently  ;  the  quick  young  blood  was  al- 
ways ready  enough  to  rise  in  his  face.  It  spoke  ill  for  him 
with  my  father. 

"  Answer.  I  will  not  be  hard  upon  thee — to-night,  at 
least." 

''As  you  like,  Abel  Fletcher,"  answered  the  boy  stur- 
dily. 

"  I  was  doing  no  harm.     I  was  in  the  tan-yard." 

"  Thy  business  there  ?  " 

"  None  at  all.  I  was  with  the  men — they  were  watch- 
ing, and  had  a  candle  ;  and  I  wanted  to  sit  up,  and  had 
no  light." 

"  What  didst  thee  want  to  sit  up  for  ?  "  pursued  my 
father,  keen  and  sharp  as  a  ferret  at  a  field-rat's  hole, 
or  a  barrister  hunting  a  Avitness,  in  those  courts  of  law 
that  were  never  used  by,  though  often  used  against,  us 
Quakers. 

John  hesitated,  and  again  his  painful,  falsely-accusing 
blushes  tried  him  sore.  "  Sir,  I'll  tell  you  ;  it's  no  dis- 
grace. Thoiigh  I  am  such  a  big  fellow,  I  can't  write  ;  and 
your  son  was  good  enough  to  try  and  teach  me.  I  was 
afraid  of  forgetting  the  letters  ;  so  I  tried  to  make  them  all 
over  again,  with  a  bit  of  chalk,  on  the  bark-shed  wall.  It 
did  nobody  any  harm,  that  I  know  of," 


54  JOH]Sr   HALIFAX. 

The  boy's  tone,  even  though  it  was  rather  quick  and 
angry,  won  no  reproof.  At  last,  my  father  said,  gently 
enough, — 

'^  Is  that  all,  lad  ?" 

"Yes." 

Again  Abel  Fletcher  fell  into  a  brown  study.  We  two 
lads  talked  softly  to  each  other — afraid  to  interrupt.  He 
smoked  through  a  whole  pipe — his  great  and  almost  his 
only  luxury,  and  then  again  called  out — 

'^  John  Halifax." 

'a'm  here." 

"  It's  time  thee  went  away  to  thy  work." 

''I'm  going  this  minute.  Good-bye,  Phineas.  Good 
day,  sir — is  there  anything  you  want  done  ?" 

He  stood  before  his  master,  cap  in  hand,  with  an  honest 
manliness  pleasant  to  see.  Any  master  might  have  been 
proud  of  such  a  servant — any  father  of  such  a  son.  My 
poor  father — no,  he  did  not  once  look  from  John  Halifax 
to  me.  He  would  not  have  owned  for  the  world  that  half 
smothered  sigh,  or  murmured  because  heaven  had  kept 
back  from  him — as,  heaven  knows  why,  it  often  does  from 
us  all ! — the  one  desire  of  the  heart. 

"John  Halifax,  thee  hast  been  of  great  service  to  me, 
this  night.     What  reward  shall  I  give  thee  ?  " 

And  instinctively  his  hand  dived  down  into  his  pocket. 
John  turned  away. 

"  Thank  you — I'd  rather  not.  It  is  quite  enough  reward 
that  I  have  been  useful  to  my  master,  and  that  he  acknowl- 
edges it." 

My  father  thought  a  minute,  and  then  offered  his  hand. 
"  Thee'rt  in  the  right,  lad.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
thee,  and  I  will  not  forget  it." 

And  John — blushing  brightly  once  more — went  away, 
looking  as  proud  as  an  emperor,  and  as  happy  as  a  poor 
man  with  a  bag  of  gold. 

"  Is  there  nothing  thou  canst  think  of,  Phineas,  that  would 
pleasure  the  lad  ?  "  said  my  father,  after  we  had  been  talk- 
ing some  time — though  not  about  John. 

I  had  thought  of  something — something  I  had  long  de- 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  55 

sired,  but  which  seemed  then  all  but  an  impossibility.  Even 
now,  it  was  with  some  doubt  and  hesitation  that  I  made 
the  suggestion  that  he  should  spend  every  Sunday  at  our 
house. 

"  Nonsense  ! — thou  know'st  nought  of  Norton  Bury  lads. 
He  would  not  care.  He  had  rather  lounge  about  all  First- 
day  at  street-corners  with  his  acquaintance.'' 

"  John  has  none,  father.  He  knows  nobody — cares  for 
nobody — but  me.     Do  let  him  come.'' 

''We'll  see  about  it." 

My  father  never  broke  or  retracted  his  word.  So  after 
that,  John  Halifax  came  to  us  every  Sunday  :  and  for  one 
day  of  the  week,  at  least,  was  received  in  his  master's  house- 
hold as  our  equal,  and  my  friend. 


CHAPTER    y. 

Summers  and  winters  slipped  by,  lazily  enough,  as  the 
years  seemed  always  to  crawl  round  at  Norton  Bury.  How 
things  went  in  the  outside  Avorld,  I  little  knew  or  cared. 
My  father  lived  his  life,  mechanical  and  steady  as  clock- 
work, and  we  two,  John  Halifax  and  Phineas  Fletcher, 
lived  our  lives — the  one  so  active  and  busy,  the  other  so 
•  useless  and  dull.  Neither  of  us  counted  the  days,  nor 
looked  backwards  or  forwards. 

One  June  morning,  I  woke  to  the  consciousness  that  I 
was  twenty  years  old,  and  that  John  Halifax  was — a  man  ; 
the  difference  between  us  being  jDrecisely  as  I  have  expressed 
it. 

Our  birthdays  fell  within  a  week  of  each  other,  and  it 
was  in  remembering  his — the  one  which  advanced  him  to 
the  dignity  of  eighteen — that  I  called  to  mind  my  own.  I 
say,  "  advanced  him  to  the  dignity^' — but  in  truth  that  is 
an  idle  speech  ;  for  any  dignity  which  the  maturity  of  eigh- 
teen may  be  supposed  to  confer,  he  had  already  in  posses- 
sion. Manhood  had  come  to  him,  both  in  character  and 
demeanor,  not  as  it  comes  to  most  young  lads,  an  eagerly- 
desired  and  j)resumptuously-asserted  claim,  but  as  a  rightful 
inheritance,  to  be  received  humbly,  and  worn  simply  and 
naturally.  So  naturally,  that  I  never  seemed  to  think  of 
him  as  anything  but  a  boy,  until  this  one  June  Sunday, 
when,  as  before  stated,  I  myself  became  twenty  years  old. 

I  was  talking  over  that  last  fact,  in  a  rather  dreamy  mood, 
as  he  and  I  sat  in  our  long-familiar  summer  seat,  the  clema= 
tis  arbor  by  the  garden  wall. 

"  It  seems  very  strange,  John,  but  so  it  is — I  am  actually 
twenty. '' 

"  Well,  and  what  of  that  ?'' 

I  sat  looking  down  into  the  river,  which  flowed  on,  as  my 

56 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  57 

years  were  flowing,  monotonous,  dark,  and  slow  ; — as  they 
must  flow  on  fur  ever.  John  asked  me  what  I  was  think- 
ing of.  ^ 

"  Of  myself  :  what  a  fine  specimen  of  the  noble  genus  liomo 
I  am." 

I  spoke  bitterly,  but  John  knew  how  to  meet  that  mood. 
Very  patient  he  was,  with  it  and  with  every  ill  mood  of 
mine.  And  I  was  grateful,  with  tliat  deep  gratitude  we  feel 
to  those  who  bear  with  us,  and  forgive  ns,  and  laugh  at  us 
and  correct  us  ; — all  alike  for  love. 

"Self-investigation  is  good  on  birthdays.  IMiiiieas,  here 
goes  for  a  catalogue  of  your  qualities,  internal  and  exter- 
nal." 

"  John,  don't  be  foolish." 

"  I  will,  if  I  like  ;  though  jjerhaps  not  quite  so  foolish  tis 
some  other  people  ;  so  listen  ; — '  Iniprwiis/  as  saith  Shak- 
speare — Imprinu's,  height,  full  five  feet  four  ;  a  stature  his- 
torically appertaining  to  great  men,  including  Alexander  of 
Macedon  and  the  First  Consul." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !"  said  I,  reproachfully  ;  fur  this  was  our  chief 
bone  of  contention — I  hating,  he  rather  admiring,  the  great 
ogre  of  the  day,  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

"  ImjJi'imis,  of  a  slight,  delicate  person,  but  nut  lame,  as 
once  was." 

"  No,  thank  God  ! " 

"  Thin,  rather—" 

"  Very — a  mere  skeleton  ! " 

"  Face  elongated  and  pale — " 

"Sallow,  John,  decidedly  sallow." 

"'  Be  it  so,  sallow.  Big  eyes,  much  given  to  observation, 
which  means  hard  staring — Take  them  off  me,  Phineas,  or 
ril  not  lie  on  the  grass  a  minute  longer.— Thank  yon.  Tc 
return  :  Imjjrrmts  and  finis  (Fra  grand  at  Latin  now,  you 
see) — long  hair,  v/hich,  since  the  powder  tax,  has  resumed 
its  original  blackness,  and  is — any  young  damsel  would  say, 
only  we  count  not  a  single  one  among  our  acquaintance — 
exceedingly  bewitching." 

I  smiled,  feeling  myself  color  a  little  too,  weak  invalid 
as   I   was.     I   was,    nevertheless,    twenty   years   old  ;   and 


58  JOHN"  HALIFAX. 

although  Jael  and  Sally  were  the  only  specimens  of  the 
other  sex  which  had  risen  on  my  horizon,  yet  once  or  twice, 
since  I  had  read  Shakspeare,  I  had  had  a  boy's  lovely  dreams 
of  the  divinity  of  womanhood.  They  began,  and  ended — 
mere  dreams.  Soon  dawned  the  bare,  hard  truth,  that  my 
character  was  too  feeble  and  womanish  to  be  likely  to  win 
any  woman's  reverence  or  love.  Or,  even  had  this  been 
possible,  one  sickly  as  I  was,  stricken  with  hereditary  dis- 
ease, ought  never  seek  to  perpetuate  it  by  marriage.  I 
therefore  put  from  me  at  once  and  for  ever,  every  feeling 
of  that  kind  ;  and  during  my  whole  life — I  thank  God  ! — 
have  never  faltered  in  my  resolution.  Friendship  was 
given  me  for  love — duty  for  happiness.  So  best,  and  I 
was  satisfied. 

This  conviction,  and  the  struggle  succeeding  it — for, 
though  brief,  it  was  but  natural  that  it  should  have  been  a 
hard  struggle — was  the  only  secret  that  I  had  kept  from 
John.  It  Jiad  happened  some  months  now,  and  was  quite 
over,  and  gone,  so  that  I  could  smile  at  his  fun,  and  shake 
at  him  my  ''  bewitching  "  black  locks,  calling  him  a  foolish 
boy.  And  while  I  said  it,  the  notion  slowly  dawning  dur- 
ing the  long  gaze  he  had  complained  of,  forced  itself  upon 
me  clear  as  daylight,  that  he  was  not  a  "  boy"  any  longer. 

"■  Now  let  me  turn  the  lables. — How  old  are  you, 
John  ?  " 

''  You  know.     Eighteen  next  week." 

"  And  how  tall  ?  " 

"  Five  feet  eleven  inches  and  a  half."  And  rising,  he 
exhibited  to  its  full  advantage  that  very  creditable  altitude, 
more  tall  perhaps  than  graceful,  at  present  ;  since,  like 
most  youths,  he  did  not  as  yet  quite  know  what  to  do  with 
his  legs  and  arms.     But  he  was — 

I  cannot  describe  what  he  was.  I  could  not  then.  I 
only  remember  that  when  I  looked  at  him,  and  began 
jocularly  '■'Imprimis,"  my  heart  came  up  into  my  throat 
and  choked  me. 

It  was  almost  with  sadness  that  I  said,  "Ah  !  David,  you 
are  quite  a  young  man  now." 

He  smiled,  of  course  only  with  pleasure,  looking  forward 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  59 

to  the  new  world  into  which  he  was  going  forth  ;  the  world 
into  which,  as  1  knew  well,  I  could  never  follow  him. 

"  I  am  glad  I  look  rather  old  for  my  years,"  said  he, 
when,  after  a  pause,  he  had  again  flung  himself  down  on 
the  grass.  "  It  tells  well  in  the  tan-yard.  People  would 
be  slow  to  trust  a  clerk  who  looked  a  mere  boy.  Still,  your 
father  trusts  me," 

"  He  does,  indeed.  You  need  never  have  any  doubt  of 
that.  It  was  only  yesterday  he  said  to  me  that  now  he  was 
no  longer  dissatisfied  with  your  working  at  all  sorts  of 
studies,  in  leisure  hours,  since  it  made  you  none  the  worse 
man  of  business." 

"  No,  I  hope  not,  or  I  should  be  much  ashamed.  It 
would  not  be  doing  my  duty  to  myself  any  more  than  to 
my  master,  if  I  shirked  his  work  f(jr  my  own.  I  am  glad 
he  does  not  complain  now,  Phineas." 

"  On  the  contrary  ;  I  think  he  intends  to  give  you  a  rise 
this  Midsummer.  But  oh  !  "  I  cried,  recurring  to  a  thought 
which  would  often  come  when  I  looked  at  the  lad,  though 
he  always  combated  it  so  strongly,  that  I  often  owned  my 
prejudices  were  unjust  :  "  How  1  wish  you  Avere  some- 
thing better  than  a  clerk  in  a  tan-yard.  I  have  a  plan. 
John." 

But  what  that  jjlan  was,  was  fated  to  remain  unrevealed. 
Jael  came  to  us  in  the  garden,  looking  very  serious.  She 
had  been  summoned,  I  knew,  to  a  long  conference  with  her 
master  the  day  before — the  subject  of  which  she  would  not 
tell  me,  though  she  acknowledged  it  concerned  myself. 
Ever  since  she  had  followed  me  about  very  softly,  for  her, 
and  called  me  more  than  once,  as  when  I  was  a  child,  "  my 
dear."  She  now  came  with  half -dolorous,  half-angry  looks, 
to  summon  me  to  an  interview  with  my  father  and  Doctor 
Jessop. 

I  caught  her  parting  mutterings,  as  she  marched  behind 
me  :  "  Kill  or  cure,  indeed," — "  IS^o  more  fit  than  a  baby," 
— ''  Abel  Fletcher  be  clean  mad," — "  Hope  Thomas  Jessop 
will  speak  out  plain,  and  tell  him  so,"  and  the  like.  From 
these,  and  from  her  strange  fit  of  tenderness,  I  guessed 
what  was  looming  in  the  distance — a  future  which  my 


tJU  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

father  constantly  lield  in  terrorein  over  ine,  though  suc- 
cessive illnesses  had  kept  it  in  abeyance.  Alas  !  I  knew 
that  my  poor  father's  hopes  and  plans  were  vain  !  I  went 
into  his  presence  with  a  heavy  heart. 

There  is  no  need  to  detail  that  interview.  Enough,  that 
after  it  he  set  aside  for  ever  his  last  lingering  hope  of  hav- 
ing a  son  able  to  assist,  and  finally  succeed  him  in  his  busi- 
ness, and  that  I  set  aside  every  dream  of  growing  up  to  be 
a  help  and  comfort  to  my  father.  It  cost  something  on 
both  our  parts  ;  but  after  that  day's  discussion,  we  tacitly 
covered  over  the  pain,  and  referred  to  it  no  more. 

I  came  back  into  the  garden,  and  told  John  Halifax  all. 
He  listened,  with  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  his  grave, 
sweet  look — dearer  sympathy  than  any  words  !  Though 
he  added  thereto  a  few,  in  his  own  wise  way,  then  he  and 
I,  also,  drew  the  curtain  over  an  inevitable  grief,  and  laid 
it  in  the  peaceful  chamber  of  silence. 

When  my  father.  Dr.  Jessoj),  John  Halifax,  and  I  met 
at  dinner,  the  subject  had  passed  into  seeming  oblivion, 
and  was  never  afterwards  revived. 

But  dinner  being  over,  and  the  chatty  little  doctor  gone, 
while  Abel  Fletcher  sat  mutely  smoking  his  pipe,  and  we 
two  at  the  window  maintained  that  respectful  and  decor- 
ous silence  which  in  my  young  days  was  rigidly  exacted  by 
elders  and  superiors,  I  noticed  my  fathers  eyes  frequently 
resting,  with  keen  observance,  upon  John  Halifax.  Could 
it  be  that  there  had  recurred  to  him  a  hint  of  mine,  given 
faintly  that  morning,  as  faintly  as  if  it  had  only  Just  en- 
tered my  mind,  instead  of  having  for  months  continually 
dwelt  there,  until  a  fitting  moment  should  arrive  ? — Could 
it  be  that  this  hint,  which  he  had  indignantly  scouted  at 
the  time,  was  germinating  in  his  acute  brain,  and  might 
bear  fruit  in  future  days  ?  I  hoped  so — I  earnestly  prayed 
so.  And  to  that  end  I  took  no  notice,  but  let  it  silently 
grow. 

The  June  evening  came  and  went.  The  service-bell 
rang  out  and  ceased.  First,  deep  shadows,  and  then  a 
bright  star,  appeared  over  the  Abbey-tower.  We  watched 
it  from  the  garden,  where,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  in  fine 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  61 

weathei'  we  used  to  lounge,  and  talk  over  all  manner  of 
things  in  heaven  and  in  earth,  chiefly  ending  with  the 
former,  as  on  Sunday  nights,  with  stars  over  our  head,  was 
natural  and  fit  we  should  do. 

"  Phineas,"  said  John,  sitting  on  the  grass  with  his 
hands  upon  his  knees,  and  the  one  star,  I  think  it  was 
Jupiter,  shining  down  into  his  eyes,  deepening  them  into 
that  peculiar  look,  worth  any  so-called  "handsome  eyes  ;" 
— "  Phineas,  I  wonder  how  soon  we  shall  have  to  rise  up 
from  this  quiet,  easy  life,  and  fight  our  battles  in  the 
world.     Also,  I  wonder  if  we  are  ready  for  it." 

''  I  think  you  are." 

"■  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  clear  how  far  I  could  resist 
doing  anything  wrong,  if  it  were  pleasant.  So  many 
wrong  things  are  pleasant — just  now,  instead  of  rising  t<^ 
morrow,  and  going  into  the  little  dark  counting-house, 
and  scratching  paper  from  eight  till  six,  shouldn't  I  like  to 
break  away  ! — dash  out  into  the  world,  take  to  all  sorts 
of  wild  froaks,  do  all  sorts  of  grand  things,  and  perhaps 
never  come  back  to  the  tanning  any  more." 

"  Never,  any  more." 

"  No  !  no  !  I  spoke  hastily.  I  did  not  mean  I  ever 
should  do  such  a  wrong  thing  ;  but  merely  that  I  some- 
times feel  the  wish  to  do  it.  I  can't  help  it ;  it's  my 
Apollyon  that  I  have  to  fight  with — everybody  keeps  a 
private  Apollyon,  I  fancy.  Now,  Phineas,  be  content ; 
Apollyon  is  beaten  down." 

He  rose  up,  but  i  thought  that,  in  the  red  glow  of  the 
twilight,  he  looked  rather  pale.  He  stretched  his  hand  to 
help  me  up  from  the  grass.  We  went  into  the  house 
together,  silently. 

After  supper,  when  the  chimes  struck  half-past  nme, 
John  prepared  to  leave  as  usual.  He  went  to  bid  good- 
night to  my  father,  who  was  sitting  meditatively  over  the 
Qreless  hearth-jolace,  sometimes  poking  the  great  bow-pot  of 
xennel  and  asparagus,  as  in  winter  he  did  the  coals  :  an 
instance  of  obliviousness,  which,  in  my  sensible  and  acute 
father,  argued  very  deep  cogitation  on  some  subject  oi 
other. 


63  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Good-niglit/'  said  John,  twice  over,  before  his  master 
heard  him. 

"  Eh  ? — Oh,  good-niglit,  good-night,  hid. — Stay  !  Hali- 
fax, what  liast  thee  got  to  do  to-morrow  ?  " 

'^Not  much,  unless  the  liussian  hides  should  come  in  ;  I 
cleared  off  the  week's  accounts  last  night,  as  usual.'' 

"Ay,  to-morrow  I  shall  look  over  all  thy  books,  and  see 
how  thee  stand'st,  and  what  further  work  thou  art  fit  for. 
Therefore,  take  a  day's  holiday,  if  thee  likes." 

We  thanked  him  warmly.  "There,  John,"  whispered 
I,  "you  may  have  your  Avish,  and  run  wild  to-morrow." 

He  said,  "  the  wish  had  gone  out  of  him."  So  we  planned 
a  sweet  lazy  day  under  the  midsummer  sky,  in  some  fields 
about  a  mile  off,  called  the  Vineyards. 

^Ixe  morning  came,  and  we  took  our  way  thither,  under 
the  Abbey  walls,  and  along  a  lane,  shaded  on  one  side  by 
the  "  willows  in  the  water-courses."  We  came  out  in  those 
quiet  hay-fields,  which,  tradition  says,  had  once  grown  wine 
for  the  rosy  monks  close  by,  and  history  avers,  were  after- 
wards watered  by  a  darker  stream  than  the  blood  of  grapes. 
The  Vineyards  had  been  a  battle-field  ;  and  under  the  long 
wavy  grass,  and  the  roots  of  the  wild  apple  trees,  slept 
many  a  Yorkist  and  Lancastrian.  Sometimes  an  unusually 
deep  furrow  turned  out  a  white  bone — but  more  often  the 
relics  were  undisturbed,  and  the  meadows  used  as  pastures 
or  hay-fields. 

John  and  I  lay  down  on  some  wind-rows,  and  sunned  our- 
selves in  the  warm  and  delicious  air.  How  beautiful  every- 
thing was  !  so  very  still !  with  the  Abbey-tower — always 
the  most  picturesque  point  in  our  Norton  Bury  views- 
showing  so  near,  that  it  almost  seemed  to  rise  up  out  of  the 
fields  and  hedge-rows. 

"Well,  David,"  and  I  turned  to  the  long,  lazy  figure 
beside  me,  which  had  considerably  flattened  the  hay  ;  "  are 
you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Ay." 

Thus  we  lounged  out  all  the  summer  morning,  recurring 
to  a  few  of  the  infinitude  of  subjects  we  used  to  compare 
notes  upon  ;  though  we  were  neither  of  us  given  to  worldli- 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  63 

ness,  and  never  talked  but  when  we  had  something  to  say. 
Often— as  on  this  day — we  sat  for  hours  in  a  pleasant 
dreaminess,  scarcely  exchanging  a  word  ;  nevertheless  1 
could  generally  track  John's  thoughts,  as  they  went  wander- 
ing on,  ay,  as  clearly  as  one  might  track  a  stream  through 
a  wood  ;  sometimes — like  to-day — I  failed. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  we  had  finished  our  bread  and 
cheese — eaten  slowly  and  with  graceful  dignity,  in  order  to 
make  dinner  a  more  important  and  lengthy  affair — he  said 
abruptly — 

*'  Phineas,  don't  you  think  this  field  is  rather  dull  ?  Shall 
we  go  somewhere  else  ?  not  if  it  tires  you,  though." 

I  i^rotested  the  contrary,  my  health  being  much  above 
the  average  this  summer.  But  just  as  we  were  quitting  the 
field,  we  met  two  rather  odd-looking  persons  entering  it, 
young-old  persons  they  seemed,  who  might  own  to  any  age 
or  any  occupation.  Their  dress,  especially  that  of  the 
younger,  amused  us  by  its  queer  mixture  of  fashionableness 
and  homeliness,  such  as  gray  ribbed  stockings  and  shining 
paste  shoe-buckles,  rusty  velvet  small-clothes  and  a  coatee 
of  blue  cloth.  But  the  wearer  carried  off  this  anomalous 
costume  with  an  easy,  condescending  air,  full  of  pleasant- 
ness, humor  and  grace. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  approaching  John  Halifax  with  a  bow 
that  I  feel  sure  the  "  first  gentleman  of  his  day,"  as  loyal 
folk  then  entitled  the  Prince  Regent,  could  not  have  sur- 
passed— "  Sir,  will  you  favor  me  by  informing  us  how  far 
it  is  to  Coltham?" 

"  Ten  miles,  and  the  stage  will  pass  here  in  three  hours." 

"  Thank  you  ;  at  present  I  have  little  to  do  with  the — 
at  least  with  tliat  stage.  Young  gentlemen,  excuse  our 
continuing  our  dessert,  in  fact,  I  may  say  our  dinner.  Are 
you  connoisseurs  in  turnips  ?  " 

He  offered  us — with  a  polite  gesture — one  of  the  "  swedes  " 
he  was  munching.  I  declined  ;  but  John,  out  of  a  deeper 
delicacy  than  I  could  boast,  accepted  it. 

"  One  might  dine  worse,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  done,  some- 
times." 

*'It  was  a  whim  of  mine,   sir.     But  I  am  not  the  first 


64  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

remarkable  person  wlio  has  eaten  turnips  in  yonr  Norton 
IVary  fields — ay,  and  turned  field-preaclier  afterwards — the 
celebrated  John  Philip — " 

Here  the  elder  and  less  agreeable  of  the  two  wayfarers 
interposed  with  a  nudge,  indicating  silence. 

"My  companion  is  right,  sir/'  he  continued.  "I  will 
not  betray  our  illustrious  friend  by  mentioning  his  surname  ; 
he  -is  a  great  man  now,  and  might  not  wish  it  generally 
known  that  he  had  dined  off  turnips.  May  I  give  you  in- 
stead my  own  humble  name  ?  " 

He  gave  it  me  ;  but  I,  Phineas  Fletcher,  shall  copy  his 
leticence,  and  not  indulge  the  world  therewith.  It  was  a 
name  wholly  out  of  my  sphere,  both  then  and  now  ;  but  I 
know  it  has  since  risen  into  note  among  ti.e  people  of  the 
world.  I  believe,  too,  its  owner  has  carried  up  to  the  top- 
most height  of  celebrity,  alv/ays  the  gay,  gentlemanly  spirit, 
and  kindly  heart,  which  he  showed  when  sitting  with  us 
and  eating  swedes.  Still,  I  will  not  m.ention  his  surname 
— I  will  only  call  him  "Mr.  Charles." 

"  Now,  having  satisfactorily  '  munched,  and  munched, 
and  munched,'  like  the  sailors  wife  who  had  chestnuts  in 
her  lap — are  you  acquainted  with  my  friend,  Mr.  William 
Shakspeare,  young  gentleman  ? — I  must  try  to  fulfil  the 
other  duties  of  existence.  You  said  the  Coltham  mail 
passed  here  in  three  hours  ?  Very  well.  I  have  the  honor 
of  wishing  you  a  very  good  day,  Mr.^ — " 

"  Halifax." 

"  And  yours  ?" 

"  Fletcher." 

"Any  connection  with  him  who  went  partnership  with 
the  worthy  Beaumont  ?  " 

"  My  father  has  no  partner,  sir,"  said  I.  But  John, 
whose  reading  had  latterly  surjDassed  mine,  and  whom  noth- 
ing ever  puzzled,  explained  that  I  came  from  the  same 
old  stock  as  the  brothers  Phineas  and  Giles  Fletcher.  Up- 
on which  Mr.  Charles,  who  till  now  had  somewhat  over- 
looked me,  took  off  his  hat,  and  congratulated  me  on  my 
illustrious  descent. 

"  Tliat   man    has   evidently   seen   a   good    deal   of  the 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  65 

world/'  said  Johri;,  smiling  ;  "  I  wonder  what  the  world  la 
like  I" 

"  Did  yon  not  see  something  of  it  as  a  child  ?" 

"  Only  the  worst  and  lowest  side  ;  not  the  one  I  want  to 
see  now.  AVhat  business  do  you  think  that  Mr.  Charles  is  ? 
A  clever  man^  anyhow  ;  I  should  like  to  see  him  again." 

"So  should  I." 

Thus  talking  at  intervals  and  speculating  upon  our  new 
acquaintance,  Ave  strolled  along  till  we  came  to  a  spot  called 
by  the  country  people,  "  theBlooely  Meadow/'  from  being, 
like  several  other  places  in  the  neighborhood,  the  scene  of 
one  of  those  terrible  slaughters  chronicled  in  the  wars  of  the 
iloses.  It  was  a  sloping  field,  through  the  middle  of  which 
ran  a  little  stream  down  to  the  meadow's  end,  where,  fringed 
and  hidden  by  a  plantation  of  trees,  the  Avon  flowed. 
Here,  too,  in  all  directions,  the  hay-fields  lay,  either  in  green 
swathes,  or  tedded,  or  in  the  luxuriously-scented  quiles. 
The  lane  was  quite  populous  Avith  Avagons  and  hay-makers 
— the  men  in  tlieir  corduroA's  and  blue  hose — the  women  in 
their  trim  jackets  and  bright  calamanco  petticoats.  There 
V7  .L-e  more  Avomen  than  men,  by  far,  for  the  flower  of  the 
peasant  youth  of  England  had  been  drafted  off  to  fight 
against  "  Bonyparty."  Still  hay-time  Avas  a  glorious  season, 
Avhen  half  our  little  toAvn  turned  out,  and  made  holiday  in 
the  sunshine. 

"  I  think  Ave  Avill  go  to  a  quieter  place,  John.  There 
seems  a  crowd  doAvn  in  tlie  meadoAV ;  and  Avho  is  tb.at 
man  standing  on  the  hay-cart,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
stream  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  bright  blue  coat  ?  'Tis  Mr. 
Charles.  How  he  is  talking  and  gesticulating  !  "What  can 
he  be  at  ?" 

Without  more  ado.  John  leajied  the  Ioav  hedge,  and  ran 
down  the  slope  of  the  Bloody  ^MeadoAv.  I  followed  less 
quickly. 

There,  of  a  surety,  stood  our  ucav  friend,  on  one  of  the 
simple-fashioned  hay-carts  that  Are  used  about  Norton  Bury, 
a  loAv  frame-Avork  on  Avheels,  Avith  a  jiole  stuck  at  either  of 
the  four  corners.     He  was  bare-headed,  and  his  hair  hung 


66  JOHK    HALIFAX. 

in  graceful  curls,  well  powdered.  I  only  hope  he  had 
honestly  paid  the  tax,  which  we  were  all  then  exclaiming 
against — so  fondly  does  custom  cling  to  deformity.  De- 
sjDite  the  ]iowder,  the  blue  coat,  and  the  shabby  velvet 
breeches,  Mr.  Charles  was  a  very  handsome  and  striking- 
looking  man.  No  wonder  the  poor  hay-makers  had  col- 
lected from  all  parts  to  hear  him  harangue. 

What  was  he  haranguing  upon  ?  Could  it  be,  that  like 
his  friend,  ''John  Philip,"  whoever  that  personage  might 
be,  his  vocation  was  that  of  a  field  preacher  ?  It  seemed 
like  it,  especially  judging  from  the  sanctified  demeanor  of 
the  elder  and  inferior  person,  who  accompanied  him  ;  and 
who  sat  in  the  front  of  the  cart,  and  folded  his  hands  and 
groaned,  after  the  most  approved  fashion  of  a  methodistical 
"revival.^' 

We  listened,  expecting  every  minute  to  be  disgusted  and 
shocked  :  Init  no  !  I  must  say  this  for  Mr.  Charles,  that 
in  no  way  did  he  trespass  the  bounds  of  reverence  and 
decorum.  His  harangue,  though  given  as  a  sermon,  was 
strictly  and  simply  a  moral  essay,  such  as  might  have  ema- 
nated from  any  professor's  chair.  In  fact,  as  I  afterwards 
learnt,  he  had  given  for  his  text  one  which  the  simple 
rustics  received  in  all  respect,  as  coming  from  a  higher  and 
holier  volume  than  Shakspeare — 

"  Mercy  is  twice  blessed  : 
It  blesseth  liim  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 
'Tis  mightiest  in  tlie  mightiest." 

And  on  that  text  did  he  dilate  ;  gradually  warming  with 
his  subject,  till  his  gestures — which  at  first  had  seemed 
bui'thened  with  a  queer  constraint,  that  now  and  then  re- 
sulted in  an  irrepressible  tAvitch  of  ths  corners  of  his  flexible 
mouth — became  those  of  a  man  beguiled  into  real  earnest- 
ness. We  of  Norton  Bury  had  never  heard  such  eloquence. 
"  Who  can  he  be,  John  ?  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  " 
But  John  never  heard  me.  His  whole  attention  was 
riveted  on  the  speaker.  Such  oratory — a  compound  of 
graceful  action,  polished  language,  and  brilliant  imagina- 
tion, came  to  him  as  a  positive  revelation — a  revelation  from 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  67 

the  world  of  intellect,  the  world  which  he  longed  after  with 
all  the  ardor  of  youth. 

What  that  harangue  would  have  seemed  like,  could  we 
have  heard  it  with  maturer  ears,  I  know  not  ;  but  at 
eighteen  and  twenty,  it  literally  dazzled  us.  No  wonder  it 
affected  the  rest  of  the  audience.  Feeble  men,  leaning  on 
forks  and  rakes,  shook  tlicir  old  heads  sagely,  as  if  they 
understood  it  all.  And  when  the  speaker  alluded  to  the 
horrors  of  war — a  sulrject  which  then  came  so  l)ittcrly  home 
to  every  heart  in  Britain — many  wcmen  melted  into  sobs 
and  tears.  At  last,  Avlien  the  orator  himself,  moved  by  the 
pictures  he  had  conjured  up,  paused  suddenly,  quite  ex- 
hausted and  asked  for  a  slight  contribution  "  to  help  a  deed 
of  charity,''  there  was  a  general  rush  towards  him. 

"  No — no.  my  good  people,"  said  ^Ir.  Charles,  recover- 
ing his  natural  manner,  though  a  little  clouded,  I  thought, 
by  a  faint  sluide  of  remorse.  "  No,  T  will  not  take  from 
any  one  more  than  a  penny  ;  and  then  only  if  they  are  quite 
sure  they  can  spare  it.  Thank  you,  my  w'orthy  man. 
Thanks,  my  1)onny  young  lass — T  liope  your  sweetheart  will 
soon  be  back  from  the  Avars.  Thank  you  all,  my  '  very 
worthy  and  approved  good  masters,'  and  a  fair  harvest  to 
you." 

He  bowed  them  away,  in  a  dignified  and  graceful  man- 
ner, still  standing  on  the  hay-cart.  The  honest  folk  trooped 
off,  having  no  more  time  to  waste,  and  left  the  field  in  pos- 
session of  Mr.  Charles,  his  co-mate,  and  ourselves ;  whom 
I  do  not  think  he  had  as  yet  noticed. 

He  descended  from  the  cart.  His  companion  burst  into 
roars  of  laugliter  ;  but  Mr.  Charles  looked  grave. 

"  Poor,  honest  souls  !  "  said  he,  wiping  his  brows — I  am 
not  sure  that  it  was  only  his  brows — ''  Hang  me  if  I'll  be  at 
this  trick  again,  Yates." 

"  It  was  a  trick  then,  sir,"  said  John,  advancing.  "  I 
am  sorry  for  it." 

"  So  am  I,  young  man,"  returned  the  other,  no  way  dis- 
concerted ;  indeed,  he  seemed  a  person  whose  frank  temper 
nothing  could  disconcert.  "  But  starvation  is — excuse  me 
— unpleasant :  and  necessity  has  no  law.     It  is  of  vital  con- 


68  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

sequence  that  I  should  reach  Coltham  to-night  ;  and  after 
walking  twenty  miles,  one  cannot  easily  walk  ten  more,  and 
afterwards  appear  as  Macbeth  to  an  admiring  audience/' 

"  You  are  an  actor  ?  " 

"1  am,  please  your  worship — 

"  A  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage. 
And  then  is  seen  no  more." 

There  Avas  inexpressible  pathos  in  his  tone,  and  his  fine 
face  looked  thin  and  worn — it  did  not  take  much  to  soften 
both  John's  feelings  and  mine  towards  the  '^'jDoor  player." 
Besides,  we  had  lately  been  studying  Shakspeare,  who,  for 
the  first  time  of  reading,  generally  sends  all  young  people 
tragedy-mad. 

"  You  acted  Avell  to-day,"  said  John  ;  '■  all  the  folk  here 
took  you  for  a  Methodist  preacher." 

"  Yet  I  never  meddled  with  theology — only  common 
morality.     You  cannot  say  I  did." 

John  thought  a  moment,  and  then  answered — 

"■  Xo.     But  what  put  the  scheme  into  your  head  ?  " 

"  The  fact,  that  under  a  like  necessity,  the  same  amusing 
play  was  played  out  here  years  ago,  as  I  told  you,  by  John 
Philip — no,  I  will  not  conceal  his  name,  the  greatest  actor 
and  the  truest  gentleman  our  English  stage  has  ever  seen — 
John  Philip  Kemble." 

And  he  raised  his  hat  with  sincere  reverence.  We,  too, 
had  heard — at  least  John  had — of  this  wonderful  man. 

I  saw  the  fascination  of  Mr.  Charles'  society  was  strongly 
upon  him.  It  was  uo  wonder.  More  brilliant,  more  ver- 
satile talent,  I  never  saw.  He  turned  "  from  grave  to  gay, 
from  lively  to  severe" — appearing  in  all  phases  like  the 
gentleman,  the  scholar,  and  the  man  of  the  world.  And 
neither  John  nor  I  had  ever  met  any  one  of  these  characters, 
all  so  irresistibly  alluring  at  our  age. 

I  say  our,  because  though  I  followed  where  he  led,  I 
always  did  it  of  my  own  will  likewise. 

The  afternoon  began  to  Avane,  while  we.  with  our  two 
companions,  yet  sat  talking  by  the  brook-side.     Mr.  C-harles 


JOHN    HALIFAX,  69 

had  washed  his  face,  and  his  travel-sore,  blistered  feet,  and 
we  had  induced  him,  and  the  man  he  called  Yates,  to  share 
our  remnants  of  bread  and  cheese. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  starting  u}),  "I  am  ready  to  do  battle 
again,  even  with  the  Tiiane  of  Fife — who,  to-night,  is  one 
Johnson,  a  fellow  of  six  feet  and  twelve  stone.  What  is 
the  hour,  Mr.  Halifax  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Ilalifcix  "— (I  felt  pleased  to  hear  him,  for  the  first 
time,  so  entitled) — had,  unfortunately,  no  watch  among  his 
worldly  possessions,  and  candidly  owned  the  fact.  But  he 
made  a  near  guess,  by  calculating  the  position  of  his  unfail- 
ing time-piece,  the  sun.     It  was  four  o'chtck. 

"Then  I  must  go.  Will  you  not  retract,  young  gentle- 
men ?  Surely  you  would  not  lose  such  a  rare  treat  as 
'Macbeth,'  with — I  will  not  say  my  humble  self — but  with 
that  divine  Siddons.  Such  a  woman  !  Shakspeare  him- 
self might  lean  out  of  Elysium  to  watch  her.  You  will 
join  us  ?  " 

John  made  a  silent,  dolorous  negative  ;  as  he  had  done 
once  or  twice  before,  when  tlie  tutor  urged  us  to  accom- 
pany him  to  Coltham,  for  a  few  hours  only — we  might  be 
back  by  midnight,  easily. 

"What  do  you  think,  Phineas  ?"  said  John,  when  we 
stood  in  the  high  road,  v,'aiting  for  the  coach  ;  "  I  have 
nioney — and — we  have  so  little  pleasure — we  would  send 
word  to  your  father.     Do  you  think  it  would  be  wrong  ?  " 

I  could  not  say  ;  and  to  this  minute,  viewing  the  question 
nakedly  in  a  strict  and  moral  sense,  I  cannot  say  either, 
whether  or  no  it  was  an  absolute  crime  ;  therefore,  being 
accustomed  to  read  my  wrong  or  right  in  "  David's  "  eyes, 
I  remained  perfectly  passive. 

We  waited  by  the  hedge-side  for  several  minutes — "Sir. 
Charles  ceased  his  urging,  half  in  dudgeon,  save  that  he 
was  too  pleasant  a  man  really  to  take  offence  at  anything. 
His  conversation  was  chiefly  directed  to  me.  John  took 
no  part  therein,  but  strolled  about  plucking  at  the  hedge. 

When  the  stage  appeared  down  the  winding  of  the  road, 
I  was  utterly  ignorant  of  what  he  meant  us  to  do,  or  if  he 
had  any  definite  purpose  at  all. 


70  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

It  came — the  coachman  was  hailed.  Mr.  Clmrles  shook 
hands  with  iis  and  mounted — paying  his  own  fare  and  that 
of  Yates,  witii  their  handful  of  charity-pennies,  which 
caused  a  few  minutes'  delay  in  counting,  and  a  great  deal 
of  good-humored  joking,  as  good-humoredly  home. 

Meanwhile,  John  put  his  two  hands  on  my  shoulders  and 
looked  hard  into  my  face  ;  his  was  slightly  flushed  and 
excited,  I  thought. 

"  Phineas,  are  you  tired  ?  " 

^' Not  at  ah." 

"  Do  you  feel  strong  enough  to  go  to  Coltham  ?  Would 
it  do  you  no  harm  ?     Would  you  lilce  to  go  ?  " 

To  all  these  hurried  questions  I  answered  with  as  hurried 
an  affirmative.  It  was  sufficient  to  me  that  he  evidently 
liked  to  go. 

"It  is  only  for  once — your  father  vv'ould  not  grudge  us 
the  pleasure,  and  he  is  too  husy  to  he  out  of  the  tan-yard 
before  midnight.  AVe  will  he  home  soon  after  then,  if  I 
carry  you  on  my  back  all  the  ten  miles.  Come,  mount, 
we'll  go." 

"  Bravo  ! "  cried  Mr.  Charles,  and  leaned  over  to  help 
me  up  the  coach's  side,  John  followed,  and  the  crisis  was 
past. 

But  I  noticed  that  for  several  miles  he  hardly  spoke  one 
word. 


CHAPTER  yi. 

Neae  as  we  lived  to  Coltliam,  I  liad  only  been  there 
once  in  my  life  ;  but  John  Halifax  knew  the  town  pretty 
well,  having  latterly,  in  add,ition  to  his  clerkship,  been 
employed  by  my  father  in  going  about  the  neighborhood 
buying  bark.  I  was  amused  wlien  the  coach  stopped  at  an 
inn,  which  bore  the  ominous  sign  of  the  "  Fleece/'  to  see 
how  well  accustomed  he  seemed  to  l)e  to  tlie  ways  of  the 
place.  He  deported  himself  with  perfect  self-possession  ; 
the  waiter  served  him  respectfully.  He  had  evidently 
taken  his  position  in  the  world — at  least,  our  little  world — 
he  was  no  longer  a  boy,  but  a  man.  I  was  glad  to  see  it ; 
leaving  everything  in  liis  hands,  I  lay  down  where  he  placed 
me  in  tlic  inn  parlor,  and  watched  him  giving  his  orders 
and  walking  about.  Sometinics  I  tliought  Ins  eves  Avere 
restless  and  unquiet,  but  his  manner  Avas  as  composed  as 
usual. 

Mr,  Charles  had  left  us,  appointing  a  meeting  at  Coffee- 
house Yard,  where  the  theatre  then  was. 

"A  poor  barn-like  place,  I  believe,"  said  John,  stopping 
in  his  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  to  place  my  cushions 
more  easy  ;  "  they  should  build  a  new  one,  now  Coltham  is 
growing  up  into  such  a  fashionable  town.  I  wish  I  could 
take  you  to  see  tlie  MYell-walk,'  with  all  the  fine  people 
promenading.     But  you  must  rest,  Phineas." 

I  consented,  beiug  indeed  rather  weary. 

"You  will  like  to  see  Mrs.  Siddons,  whom  we  have  so 
often  talked  about  ? — She  is  not  young  now,  Mr.  Charles 
says,  but  magnificent  still.  She  first  came  out  in  this  same 
theatre,  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  Y^'ates  saw  her.  I 
wonder,  Phineas,  if  your  father  ever  did  ?  " 

'•'  Oh  no  !  my  father  would  not  enter  a  playhouse  for  the 

world." 

71 


72  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  What ! " 

"  Nay,  John,  you  need  not  look  so  troubled.  You  know 
he  did  not  bring  me  up  in  the  Society,  and  its  restrictions 
are  not  binding  upon  me." 

"True,  true."  And  he  resumed  his  walk,  but  not  his 
cheerfulness.  "  If  it  were  myself  alone  now,  of  course, 
what  I  myself  hold  to  be  u  lawful  pleasure,  I  have  a  right 
to  enjoy  ;  or,  if  not,  being  yet  a  lad  and  under  a  master — 
well,  I  will  bear  the  consequences,"  added  he,  rather 
proudly;  "but  to  share  them — Phineas,"  turning  sud- 
denly to  me,  "  would  you  like  to  go  home  ? — I'll  take  you." 

I  protested  earnestly  against  any  such  thing  ;  told  him  1 
was  sure  we  were  doing  nothing  wrong — which,  was,  in- 
deed, my  belief  ;  entreated  him  to  be  merry  and  enjoy  him- 
self, and  succeeded  so  Avell,  that  in  a  few  minutes  we  had 
started  in  a  flutter  of  gaiety  and  excitement  for  Coffee- 
house Yard. 

It  was  a  poor  jdace — little  better  than  a  barn,  as  Mr. 
Charles  had  said — built  in  a  lane  leading  out  of  the  princi- 
pal street.  This  lane  was  almost  blocked  up  with  play- 
goers of  all  ranks  and  in  all  sorts  of  equipages,  from  the 
coach-and-six  to  the  sedan-chair,  mingled  with  a  motley 
crowd  on  foot,  all  jostling,  fighting,  and  screaming,  till  the 
place  became  a  complete  bear-garden. 

"  Oh,  John  !  take  care  ! "  and  I  clung  to  his  arm. 

"  ]SI"ever  mind  !  I'm  big  enough  and  strong  enough  for 
any  crowd.  Hold  on,  Phineas."  If  I  had  been  a  woman, 
and  the  woman  that  he  loved,  he  could  not  have  been  more 
tender  over  my  weakness.  The  physical  weakness — which, 
however  humiliating  to  myself,  and  doubtless  contemptible 
in  most  men^s  eyes — was  yet  dealt  by  the  hand  of  Heaven,, 
and,  as  such,  regarded  by  John  only  with  compassion. 

The  crowd  grcAV  denser  and  more  formidable.  I  looked 
beyond  it,  up  towards  the  low  hills  that  rose  in  various 
directions  round  the  town  ;  how  green  and  quiet  they  were, 
in  the  still  June  evening  !  I  only  wished  we  were  safe  back 
again  at  Norton  Bury. 

But  now  there  came  a  slight  swaying  in  the  crowd,  as  a 
sedan-chair  was  borne  through— or  attempted  to  be — for  the 


JOHK    HALIFAX.  73 

effort  failed.  There  was  a  scuffle,  and  one  of  the  bearers 
was  knocked  down  and  hurt.  Some  cried  "  Shame  ! " 
others  seemed  to  think  this  incident  only  added,  to  the 
frolic.  At  last,  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  a  lady  put 
her  head  out  of  the  sedan,  and  gazed  around  lier. 

It  was  a  remarkable  countenance  ;  once  seen,  you  could 
never  forget  it.  Pale,  rather  large  and  hard  m  outline,  an 
aquiline  nose — full,  passionate,  yet  sensitive  lips — and  very 
dark  eyes.  She  spoke,  and  the  voice  belonged  naturally  to 
such  a  face.  "  Good  people,  let  me  pass — I  am  Sarah  Sid- 
dons." 

The  crowd  divided  instantaneously,  and,  in  moving,  set 
up  a  cheer  that  must  have  rang  through  all  the  town. 
There  was  a  minute's  pause  while  she  bowed  and  smiled — 
such  a  smile  I — and  then  the  sedan  curtain  closed. 

"  Now's  the  time — only  hold  fast  to  me  ! "  whispered 
John,  as  he  sprang  forward,  dragging  me  after  him.  In 
another  second  he  had  caught  up  the  pole  dropped  by  the 
man  who  was  hurt  :  and  before  I  well  knew  what  Ave  were 
about,  we  both  stood  safe  inside  the  entrance  of  the  theatre. 

Mrs.  Siddons  stepped  out,  and  turiied  to  pay  her  bearers 
— a  most  simple  action — but  so  elevated  in  the  doing,  that 
even  it.  I  thought,  could  not  bring  her  to  the  level  of  com- 
mon humanity.  The  tall,  cloaked,  and  hooded  figure,  and 
the  tones  that  issued  thence,  made  her,  even  in  that  narrow 
passage,  under  the  one  flaring  tallow  candle,  a  veritable 
Queen  of  Tragedy — at  least,  so  she  seemed  to  us  two. 

The  one  man  was  paid — over-paid,  apparently,  from  his 
thankfulness — and  she  turned  to  John  Halifax. 

"  I  regret,  young  man.  that  you  should  have  had  so  much 
trouble.     Here  is  some  requital." 

He  took  the  money,  selected  from  it  one  silver  coin,  and 
returned  the  rest. 

"  I  will  keep  this,  madam,  if  you  please  as  a  memento 
that  I  once  had  the  honor  of  being  useful  to  Mrs.  Siddons." 

She  looked  at  him  keenly,  out  of  her  wonderful  dark 
eyes,  then  curtsied  with  grave  dignity — "  I  thank  you,  sir,'' 
she  said  and  passed  on. 

A  few  minutes  after,  some  underling  of  the  theatre  found 


74  JOHN    HALIFAX, 

ns  out,  and  brought  us,  "  by  Mrs.  Siddons'  desire,"  to  the 
best  places  the  house  could  afford. 

It  was  a  glorious  night.  At  this  distance  of  time,  when 
I  look  back  upon  it,  my  old  blood  leaps  and  burns.  I  re- 
peat, it  was  a  glorious  night  ! 

Before  the  curtain  rose,  we  had  time  to  glance  about  us 
on  that  scene,  to  both  entirely  new — the  insi  le  of  a  theatre. 
Shabby  and  small  as  the  place  was,  it  was  filled  with  all  the 
bemi  monde  of  Coltham,  which  then,  patronized  by  royalty, 
rivalled  even  Bath  in  its  fashion  and  folly.  Such  a  dazzle 
of  diamonds  and  spangled  turbans  and  Prince-of- Wales' 
plumes.  Such  an  odd  mingling  of  costume,  which  was 
then  in  a  transition  state,  the  old  ladies  clinging  tena- 
ciously to  the  stately  silken  petticoats  and  long  bodices, 
surmounted  by  the  prim  and  decent  honff antes,  while  the 
younger  belles  had  begun  to  flaunt  in  the  French  fashions 
of  flimsy  muslins,  short-waisted — narrow-skirted.  These 
we  had  already  heard  Jael  furiously  inveighing  against :  for 
Jael,  Quakeress  as  she  was,  could  not  quite  smother  her 
original  propensity  towards  the  decoration  of  "■  the  flesh," 
and  betrayed  a  suppressed  but  profound  interest  in  the 
same. 

John  and  I  quite  agreed  with  her,  that  it  was  painful  to 
see  gentle  English  girls  clad,  or  rather  un-clad,  after  the 
fashion  of  our  enemies  across  the  Channel  ;  now,  unhappy 
nation  !  sunk  to  zero  in  politics,  religion,  and  morals — 
where  high-bred  ladies  went  about  dressed  as  heathen  god- 
desses, with  bare  arms  and  bare  sandalled  feet,  gaining 
none  of  the  pure  simplicity  of  the  ancient  world,  and  los- 
ing all  the  decorous  dignity  of  our  modern  times. 

We  two — who  had  all  a  boy's  mysterious  reverence  for 
womanhood,  in  its  most  ideal,  most  beautiful  form,  and  who, 
I  believe,  were,  in  our  ignorance,  expecting  to  behold  in 
evefy  woman  an  Imogen,  a  Juliet,  or  a  Desdemona — felt 
no  particular  attraction  towards  the  ungracefully  attired, 
flaunting,  simpering  belles  of  Coltham. 

But — the  play  began. 

I  am  not  going  to  follow  it  :  all  the  world  has  heaid  of 
the  Lady  Macbeth  of  Mrs.    Siddons.     This,  the  first  and 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  75 

last  play  I  ever  witnessed,  stands  out  to  my  memory,  after 
more  than  lialf  a  century,  as  clear  as  on  that  night.  StiJl  I 
can  see  her  in  her  first  scene,  "  reading  a  letter  " — that 
wondrous  woman,  who,  in  spite  of  her  modern  black  velvet 
and  point  lace,  did  not  act,  but  was,  Lady  Macbeth  :  still  I 
hear  the  awe-struck,  questioning,  weird-like  tone,  that  sent 
an  involuntary  shudder  through  the  house,  as  if  supernatu- 
ral things  were  abroad — '•'  They  made  themselves — air  !  '"' 
And  still  there  quivers  through  tlic  silence  that  piteous  cry 
of  a  strong  heartbroken — ''All  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will 
never  siveeten  this  little  hand!" 

Well,  she  is  gone,  like  the  brief  three  hours  when  we  hung 
on  her  every  breath,  as  if  it  could  stay  even  the  wheels  of 
time.  But  they  liave  whirled  on — whirled  her  away  with 
them  into  the  infinite,  and  into  earthly  oblivion  !  People 
tell  me  that  a  new  generation  only  smiles  at  the  traditional 
glory  of  Sarah  Siddons.  They  never  saw  her.  For  me,  I 
shall  go  down  to  the  grave,  worshipping  her  still. 

Of  him  whom  I  call  Mr.  Charles.  1  have  little  to  say. 
John  and  I  both  smiled  when  we  saw  his  fine,  frank  face 
and  manly  bearing  subdued  into  that  poor,  whining,  senti- 
mental craven,  the  stage  Alacheth.  Yet  I  believe  he  acted 
it  well.  But  we  irresistibly  associated  his  idea  with  that  of 
turnip-munching  and  hay-cart  oratory.  And  when,  during 
the  first  colloquy  of  Banquo  with  the  witches,  Macbeth  took 
the  opportunity  of  winking  privately  at  us  over  the  foot- 
lights, all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  stage  failed  to  make  the 
murderous  Thane  of  Cawdor  aught  else  than  our  humorous 
and  good-natured  Mr.  Charles.  I  never  saw  him  after  that 
night.  He  is  still  living — may  his  old  age  have  been  as 
peaceful  as  his  youth  was  kind  and  gay  ! 

The  play  ended.  There  was  some  buffoonery  still  to  come, 
but  we  would  not  stay  for  that.  We  staggered,  half-blind 
and  dazzled  both  in  eyes  and  brain,  out  into  the  dark  streets, 
John  almost  carrying  me.  Then  we  paused,  and  leaning 
against  a  post  which  was  surmounted  by  one  of  the  half- 
dozen  oil  lamps  which  illumined  the  town,  tried  to  regain 
our  mental  equilibrium. 

John  was  the  first  to  do  it.     Passing  his  h  *^d  over  his 


76  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

brow,  he  bared  it  to  the  fresh  night-air,  and  drew  a  deep, 
hard  breath.     He  was  very  pale,  I  saw. 

"  John  ? " 

He  turned,  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "  What  did 
you  say  ?     Are  you  cold  ?  " 

"  No."  He  put  his  arm  so  as  to  shield  the  wind  from  me, 
nevertheless. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "  we  have  had  our  pleas- 
ure, and  it  is  over.  jSJ^ow,  we  must  go  back  to  the  old 
ways  again.     I  wonder  what  o'clock  it  is  ?  " 

He  was  answered  by  a  church  clock  striking,  heard  clearly 
over  the  silent  town.     I  counted  the  strokes — eleven  ! 

Horrified,  we  looked  at  one  another  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp.  Until  this  minute  we  had  taken  no  note  of  time. 
Eleven  o'clock  !  How  should  we  get  home  to  Norton  Bury 
that  night  ! 

For,  now  the  excitement  was  over,  I  turned  sick  and 
faint  ;  my  limbs  almost  sank  under  me. 

"  What  must  we  do,  John  ?" 

"  Do  !  Oh  !  'tis  quite  easy.  You  cannot  walk — you  shall 
not  walk — we  must  hire  a  gig  and  drive  hom.e.  I  have 
enough  money — all  my  month's  wages— see  !  "  He  felt  in 
his  pockets  one  after  the  other  ;  his  countenance  grew 
blank.     "  Why  !  where  is  my  money  gone  to  ?  " 

Where,  indeed  !  But  that  it  was  gone  and  irretrievably 
— most  likely  stolen  when  we  were  so  wedged  in  the  crowd 
— there  could  be  no  manner  of  doubt.  And  I  had  not 
a  groat.  I  had  little  use  for  money,  and  rarely  carried 
any. 

"  Would  not  somebody  trust  us  ?  "  suggested  I. 

"  I  never  asked  anybody  for  credit  in  my  life — and  for  a 
horse  and  gig — they'd  laugh  at  me.  Still — yes — stay  here 
a  minute,  and  I'll  try." 

He  came  back,  though  not  immediately,  and  took  my  arm 
with  a  reckless  laugh. 

"It's  of  no  use,  Phineas — Fm  not  so  respectable  as  I 
thought.     What's  to  be  done  ?  " 

Ay  !  what  indeed  !  Here  we  were,  two  friendless  youths, 
with  not  a  penny  in  our  pockets,  and  ten  miles  away  from 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  77 

home.  How  to  get  there,  and  at  midnight  too,  was  a  very 
serious  question.  We  consulted  a  minute,  and  then  John 
said  firmly  : 

"  We  must  make  the  best  of  it,  and  start.  Every  instant 
is  precious.  Your  father  will  think  we  have  fallen  into 
some  harm.     Come,  Phineas,  I'll  help  you  on." 

His  strong,  cheery  voice,  added  to  the  necessity  of  the 
circumstances,  braced  up  my  nerves.  I  took  hold  of  his 
arm,  and  we  marched  on  bravely  through  the  shut-up  town, 
and  for  a  mile  or  two  along  the  high  road  leading  to  A'or- 
ton  Bury.  There  was  a  cool  fresh  breeze  :  and  I  often 
think  one  can  walk  so  much  further  by  night  than  by  day. 
For  some  time,  listening  to  John's  talk  about  the  stars — he 
had  lately  added  astronomy  to  the  many  things  he  tried  to 
learn — and  recalling  with  him  all  that  we  had  heard  and 
seen  this  day,  I  hardly  felt  my  weariness. 

But  gradually  it  grew  upon  me  ;  my  pace  lagged  slower 
and  slower — even  the  scented  air  of  the  midsummer-night 
imparted  no  freshness.  John  wound  his  young  arm,  strong 
and  firm  as  iron,  round  my  waist,  aiul  we  got  on  awhile  in 
that  way. 

''Keep  up,  Phineas.  There's  a  hayrick  near.  I'll  wrap 
you  in  my  coat,  and  you  shall  rest  there  :  an  hour  or  two 
will  not  matter  now — we  shall  get  home  by  day-break." 

I  feebly  assented  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  we  never 
should  get  home — at  least,  I  never  should.  For  a  short 
Avay  more,  I  dragged  myself — or  rather,  was  dragged, 
along  ;  then  the  stars,  the  shadowy  fields,  and  the  winding, 
white  highroad  mingled  and  faded  from  me.  I  lost  all 
consciousness. 

When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  lying  by  a  tiny  brook  at 
the  road-side,  my  head  resting  on  John's  knees.  He  was 
bathing  my  forehead ;  I  could  not  see  him,  but  I  heard  his 
smothered  moan. 

''David,  don't  mind.     I  shall  be  well  directly." 

"  Oh  !  Phineas — Phineas  !  I  thought  I  had  killed  you." 

He  said  no  more  ;  but  I  fancied  that  under  cover  of  the 
night  he  yielded  to  what  his  manhood  might  have  been 
ashamed  of — yet  need  not — a  few  tears. 


78  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

I  tried  to   rise.     There  was  a  faint  streak   in  the  east, 

"  Why  it  is  day-breaii  !  How  far  are  we  from  Norton 
Bury  ?  " 

"  Not  very  far.     Don't  stir  a  step.     I  shall  carry  you." 

"  Impossible  ! " 

"  Nonsense,  I  have  done  it  for  half-a-mile  already.  Come, 
mount !  I  am  not  going  to  have  Jonathan's  death  laid  at 
David's  door." 

And  so,  masking  command  with  a  jest,  he  had  his  way. 
What  strength  supported  him  I  cannot  tell,  but  he  certainly 
carried  me — with  many  rests  between,  and  pauses,  during 
which  I  walked  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so — the  whole  way 
to  Norton  Bury. 

The  light  broadened  and  broadened  ;  when  we  reached 
my  father's  door,  haggard  and  miserable,  it  was  in  the  pale 
sunshine  of  a  summer  morning. 

'"•  Thank  God  \"  murmured  John,  as  he  set  me  down  at 
the  foot  of  the  steps.     "  You  are  safe  at  home." 

"  And  you.  You  will  come  in — you  would  not  leave  me 
now  ^ 

He  thought  a  moment — then  said  ''No  !" 

W^e  looked  up  doubtfully  at  tlie  house  ;  there  were  no 
watchers  there.  All  the  windows  were  closed,  as  if  the 
whole  peaceful  establishment  were  takhig  its  sleep,  prior  to 
the  early  stirring  of  Norton  Bury  houseliold.  Even  John's 
loud  knocking  was  some  time  before  it  was  answered. 

I  was  too  exhausted  to  feel  much  ;  but  I  know  those  five 
awful  minutes  seemed  interminable.  I  could  not  have 
borne  them,  save  for  John's  voice  in  my  ear. 

"  Courage  !  I'll  bear  all  the  blame.  We  have  committed 
no  absolute  sin,  and  have  paid  dearly  for  any  folly.  Cour- 
age ! " 

At  the  five  minutes'  end,  my  father  opened  the  door. 
He  was  dressed  as  usual,  looked  as  usual.  Whether  he  had 
sat  up  watching,  or  had  suffered  any  anxiety,  I  never 
found  out. 

He  said  nothing  ;  merely  opened  the  door,  admitted  us, 
and  closed  it  behind  us.  But  we  were  certain,  from  his 
face,  that  he  knew  all.     It  was  so  ;  some  neiglibor  driving 


JOHK    HALIFAX.  79 

home  from  Coltham,  had  taken  pains  to  tell  Abel  Fletcher 
where  he  had  seen  his  son — at  the  very  last  place  a  Friend's 
son  ought  to  be  seen — the  play-house.  We  knew  that  it 
was  by  no  means  to  learn  the  truth,  but  to  confront  us 
with  it,  that  my  fatlier— reaching  the  parlor,  and  opening 
the  shutters,  that  tlie  hard  daylight  should  shame  us  more 
and  more — asked  the  stern  question — 

"  Phineas,  where  hast  thee  been  ?" 

John  answered  for  'mo.  "At  the  theatre  at  Coltham. 
It  was  my  fault.     He  went  because  I  wished  to  go." 

"  And  wherefore  didst  thee  wisli  to  go  ?  " 

"Wherefore  ?"  the  answer  seemed  hard  to  find.  "  Oh  ! 
Mr.  Fletcher,  were  you  never  young  like  me  ?" 

My  father  made  no  reply  ;  John  gathered  courage. 

"It  was,  as  I  say,  all  my  fault.  It  might  have  been 
wrong — I  think  now  that  it  was — but  the  temptation  was 
hard.  My  life  here  is  dull ;  I  long  sometimes  for  a  little 
amusement — a  little  change." 

"  Thee  shall  have  it." 

That  voice,  slow  and  quiet  as  it  was,  struck  us  both 
dumb. 

"  And  how  long  hast  thee  planned  this,  John  Halifax  ?" 

"Not  a  day — not  an  hour  !  It  was  a  sudden  freak  of 
mine."  (My  father  shook  his  head  with  contemptuous  in- 
credulity.) "  8ir  ! — Abel  Fletcher — did  lever  tell  you  a 
lie  ?  If  you  will  not  believe  me,  believe  your  own  son. 
Ask  Phineas — No,  no,  ask  him  nothing  !  "  And  he  came 
in  great  distress  to  the  sofa  where  I  had  fallen.  "  Oh,  Phi- 
neas !  how  cruel  I  have  been  to  you  ! " 

I  tried  to  smile  at  him,  being  past  speaking — but  my 
father  put  John  aside. 

"  Young  man,  I  can  take  care  of  my  son.  Thee  shalt 
not  lead  him  into  harm's  way  any  more.  Go — I  have  been 
mistaken  in  thee  !  " 

If  my  father  had  gone  into  a  passion,  had  accused  us, 
reproached  us,  and  stormed  at  us  with  all  the  ill-language 
that  men  of  the  world  use  !  but  that  quiet,  cold,  irre- 
vocable, "  I  have  been  mistaken  in  thee  ! "  was  ten  times 
worse. 


80  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

John  lifted  to  bini  a  mute  look,  from  which  all  pride  had 
ebbed  away. 

"I  repeat,  I  have  been  mistaken  in  thee  !  Thee  seemed 
a  lad  to  my  mind  ;  I  trusted  thee.  This  day,  by  my  son's 
wish,  I  meant  to  have  bound  thee  prentice  to  me,  and  in 
good  time  to  have  taken  thee  into  the  business.     Now " 

There  Avas  silence.  At  last  John  muttered,  in  a  low, 
broken-hearted  voice,  "  I  deserve  it  all.  I  can  go  away.  I 
might,  perhaps,  earn  my  living  elsewhere  ;  shall  I  ?  " 

iVbel  Fletcher  hesitated,  looked  at  the  poor  lad  before 
him  (oh,  David  !  how  unlike  to  thee),  then  said,  "No — I 
do  not  wish  that.     At  least,  not  at  present. " 

I  cried  out  in  the  joy  and  relief  of  my  heart.  John  came 
over  to  me,  and  wo  clasj^ed  hands. 

'^  John,  you  will  not  go  ?" 

"  No,  I  will  stay  to  redeem  my  character  with  your 
father.     Be  content,  Phineas — I  won't  part  with  you." 

"Young  man,  thou  must,"  said  my  father,  turning 
round. 

"But." 

"  I  have  said  it,  Phineas.  I  accuse  him  of  no  dishonesty, 
no  crime,  but  of  weakly  yielding,  and  selfishly  causing 
another  to  yield,  to  the  temptation  of  the  world.  There- 
fore, as  my  clerk  I  retain  him  ;  as  my  son's  companion — 
never  ! " 

"We  felt  that  "  never  "  was  irrevocable. 

Yet  I  tried,  blindly  and  despairingly,  to  wrestle  with  it ; 
I  might  as  well  have  flung  myself  against  a  stone  wall. 

John  stood  perfectly  silent. 

"Don't,  Phineas,"  he  whispered  at  last;  "never  mind 
me.  Your  father  is  right — at  least  so  far  as  he  sees.  Let 
me  go — perhaps  I  may  come  back  to  vou  some  time.  If 
not—" 

I  moaned  out  bitter  words — I  hardly  knew  what  I  was 
saying.  My  father  took  no  notice  of  them,  only  went  to 
the  door  and  called  Jael. 

Then,  before  the  woman  came,  I  had  strength  enough  to 
bid  John  go. 

"  Good-bye, — don't  forget  me,  don't." 


JOHIST    HALIFAX.  81 

"  I  will  not,"  lie  said  ;  "and  if  I  live,  we  shall  be  friends 
again.     Good-bye,  Phi'neas."     He  was  gone. 

After  that  day,  though  he  kejjt  his  word,  and  remained 
in  the  tan-yard,  and  though  from  time  to  time  I  heard  of 
him,  always  accidentally — after  that  day,  for  two  long  years 
I  never  once  saw  the  face  of  John  ilalifax. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

It  was  the  year  1800,  long  known  in  English  households 
as  '*the  dear  year/'  The  present  generation  can  have  no 
conception  of  what  a  terrible  time  that  was — War,  Famine, 
and  Tumult  stalking  hand-in-hand,  and  no  one  to  stay 
them.  Foi"  between  the  upper  and  lower  classes  there  was 
a  great  gulf  fixed  ;  the  rich  ground  the  faces  of  the  poor, 
the  poor  hated,  yet  meanly  succumbed  to,  the  rich,  Neither 
had  Christianity  enough  boldly  to  cross  the  line  of  de- 
marcation, and  prove,  the  humbler,  that  they  were  men — 
the  higher  and  wiser,  that  they  were  gentlemen. 

These  troubles,  Avhich  were  everywhere  abroad,  reached 
us  even  in  our  quiet  town  of  Norton  Bury.  For  myself, 
personally,  they  touched  me  not,  or,  at  least,  only  kept 
fluttering  like  evil  birds  outside  the  dear  home-tabernacle, 
where  I  and  Patience  sat,  keeping  our  solemn  counsel  to- 
gether— for  these  two  years  with  me  had  been  very  hard. 

Though  I  had  to  bear  so  much  bodily  suffering,  that  I  was 
seldom  told  of  any  worldly  cares,  still  I  often  fancied  things 
were  going  ill  both  within  and  without  our  doors.  Jael 
complained  in  an  under-key  of  stinted  housekeeping,  or 
boasted  aloud  of  her  own  ingenuity  in  making  ends  meet ; 
and  my  father's  brow  grew  continually  heavier,  graver, 
sterner  ;  sometimes  so  stern  that  I  dared  not  wage,  what 
was,  openly  or  secretly,  the  quiet  but  incessant  crusade  of 
my  existence — the  bringing  back  of  John  Halifax. 

He  still  remained  my  father's  clerk — nay,  I  sometimes 
thought  he  was  even  advancing  in  duties  and  trusts,  for  I 
heard  of  his  being  sent  long  Journeys  up  and  down  England 
to  buy  grain — Abel  Fletcher  having  added  to  his  tanning 
business  the  flour-mill  hard  by  whose  lazy  wliirr  was  so 
familiar  to  John  and  me  in  our  boyhood.     But  of  these 

82 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  83 

journeys  my  father  never  spoke  ;  indeed  he  rarely  mentioned 
John  at  all.  However  he  might  employ  and  even  trust 
him  in  business  relations,  I  knew  that  in  every  other  way 
he  was  inexorable. 

And  John  Halifax  was  as  inexorable  as  he.  ISTo  under- 
hand or  clandestine  friendshii?  would  he  admit — no,  not 
even  for  my  sake.  I  knew  quite  well,  that  until  he  could 
walk  in  openly,  honorably,  proudly,  he  never  would  re-enter 
my  father's  doors.  Twice  only  he  had  written  to  me — on 
my  two  birthdays — my  father  himself  giving  me  in  silence 
the  unsealed  letters.  They  told  me  what  I  already  wap 
sure  of — that  T  held,  and  ahvays  should  hold,  my  steadfa^-*, 
place  in  his  friendship.     Nothing  more. 

One  other  fact  I  noticed  :  tliat  a  little  lad,  afterward  dis- 
covered to  be  Jem  AVatkins,  to  whom  had  fallen  the  liard- 
working  lot  of  the  lost  Bill,  liad  somehow  crept  ii.to  our 
household  as  errand-boy,  or  gardener's  boy ;  and  being 
"  cute,"  and  a  "scholard,"  was  greatly  patronized  l)y  Jael. 
T  noticed,  too,  that  the  said  Jem,  whenever  he  came  in  my 
way,  in  house  or  garden,  was  the  most  capital  "little  foot- 
page  "  that  ever  invalid  had;  knowing  intuitively  all  my 
needs,  and  serving  me  with  an  unfailing  devotion,  which 
quite  surprised  and  puzzled  me  at  the  time.  It  did  not 
afterwards. 

Summer  was  passing.  People  began  to  v/atch  A\'itli  anx- 
ious looks  tlie  thin  harvest-fields — as  Jael  often  told  me, 
when  she  came  home  from  her  afternoon  walks.  "  It  was 
piteous  to  see  them,"  she  said  ;  "  only  July,  and  the  quartern 
loaf  nearly  three  shillings,  and  meal  four  shillings  a  peck." 

And  then  she  would  glance  at  our  flour-mill,  where  for 
several  days  a  week  the  water-wheel  was  as  quiet  as  on 
Sundays ;  for  my  father  kept  his  grain  locked  up.  waiting 
for  what,  he  wisely  judged,  might  be  a  worse  harvest  than 
the  last.  But  Jael,  though  she  said  nothing,  often  looked 
at  the  flour-mill,  and  shook  her  head.  And  after  one 
market-day — when  she  came  ni  rather  "  flustered,"  saying, 
there  had  been  a  mob  outside  the  mill,  until  "that  young 
man,  Halifax  "  had  gone  out  and  spoken  to  them — she  never 
once  allowed  me  to  take  my  rare  walk  under  tlie  trees  in 


84  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

the  Abbey-3^ard  ;  nor,  if  she  could  help  it,  would  she  even 
let  me  sit  watching  the  lazy  Avon  from  the  garden-wall. 

One  Sunday — it  was  the  first  of  August,  for  my  father 
had  just  come  back  from  meeting,  very  much  later  than 
usual ;  and  Jael  said  he  had  gone,  as  was  his  annual  custom 
on  that  his  wedding-day,  to  the  Friends'  burial  ground  ni 
St.  Mary's  Lane,  where,  far  away  from  her  own  kindred 
and  people,  my  poor  young  mother  had  been  laid  ; — on  this 
one  Sunday,  I  began  to  see  that  tilings  were  going  wrong. 
Abel  Fletcher  sat  at  dinner,  wearing  the  heavy,  hard  look 
which  had  grown  upon  his  face,  not  unmingled  with  the 
wrinkles  planted  by  physical  pain.  For,  with  all  his  tem- 
perance, he  could  not  quite  keep  dov/n  his  hereditary  ene- 
my, gout  ;  and  this  week  it  had  clutched  him  pretty  hard. 

Dr.  Jessop  came  in,  and  I  stole  away  gladly  enough,  and 
sat  for  an  hour  in  my  old  place  in  the  garden,  idly  watching 
the  stretch  of  meadow,  pasture,  and  harvest  land.  N^o- 
ticing,  too,  more  as  a  pretty  bit  in  the  landscape,  than  as  a 
fact  of  vital  imjoortance,  in  how  many  places  the  half-ripe 
corn  was  already  cut,  and  piled  in  thinly-scattered  sheaves 
over  the  fields. 

After  the  doctor  left,  my  father  sent  for  me  and  all  his 
household  :  in  the  which,  creeping  humbly  after  the  woman- 
kind, was  now  numbered  the  lad  Jem.  That  Abel  Fletcher 
was  not  quite  himself,  was  proved  by  the  fact  that  his  un- 
lighted  pipe  lay  on  the  table,  and  his  afternoon  tankard  of 
ale  sank  from  foam  to  flatness,  untouched. 

He  first  addressed  Jael.  "  AVoman,  was  it  thee  who 
cooked  the  dinner  to-day  ?  " 

She  gave  a  dignified  affirmative. 

"Thee  must  give  us  no  more  such  dinners.  No  cakes, 
no  pastry  kickshaws,  and  only  wheaten  bread  enough  for 
absolute  necessity.  Our  neighbors  shall  not  say  that  Abel 
Fletcher  has  flour  in  his  mill,  and  plenty  in  his  house,  while 
there  is  famine  abroad  in  the  land.     So  take  heed." 

"I  do  take  heed,"  answered  Jael,  staunchlv.  "Thee 
canst  not  say  I  waste  a  penny  of  thine.  And  for  myself, 
do  I  not  pity  the  poor  ?  On  First-day  a  woman  cried  after 
me  about  wasting  good  flour  in  starcii — to-day,  behold." 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  85 

And  with  a  spasmodic  bridling  up,  she  pointed  to  the 
boufante  which  used  to  stand  up  stiffly  round  her  withered 
old  throat,  and  stick  out  in  front  Hke  a  pouter  pigeon. 
Alas  !  it's  glory  and  starch  were  alike  departed  ;  it  now  ap- 
peared nothing  hut  a  heap  of  crumpled  and  yellowish  mus- 
lin. Poor  Jael !  I  knew  this  was  the  most  heroic  personal 
sacrifice  she  could  have  made,  yet  I  could  not  help  smiling  ; 
even  my  father  did  the  same. 

"Dost  thee  mock  me,  Ahel  Fletcher?"  cried  she,  an- 
grily. '"  Preach  not  to  others,  while  the  sin  lies  on  thy 
own  head." 

And  I  am  sure  poor  Jael  was  innocent  of  any  jocular  in- 
tention, as  advancing  sternly,  she  pointed  to  her  master's 
pate,  where  his  long-wcn-n  powder  was  scarcely  distinguish- 
able from  the  snows  of  age.  He  bore  the  assault  gravely 
and  unshrinkingly,  merely  saying,  *'  Woman,  peace  !" 

''Nor  while,"  pursued  Jael,  driven  apparently  to  the 
last  and  most  poisoned  arrow  in  her  quiver  of  wrath — 
"  while  the  poor  folk  be  starving  in  scores  about  Xorton 
Bury,  and  the  rich  folk  there  will  not  sell  their  wheat  under 
famine  price.     Take  heed  to  thyself,  Abel  Fletcher." 

My  father  winced,  either  from  a  twinge  of  gout  or  con- 
science ;  and  then  Jael  suddenly  ceased  the  attack,  sent  the 
other  servants  out  of  the  room,  aiul  tended  her  master  as 
carefully  as  if  she  had  not  insulted  him.  In  his  fits  of  gout, 
my  father,  unlike  most  men,  became  the  quieter  and  easier 
to  manage,  the  more  he  suffered.  He  had  a  long  fit  of 
'  pain,  which  left  him  considerably  exhausted.  When,  be- 
ing at  last  relieved,  he  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  room  alone, 
he  said  to  me — 

"  Phineas,   the  tan-yard  has  thriven  ill  of  late,   and  I 
thought  the  mill  would  make  up  for  it.     But  if  it  will  not, 
it  will  not.     Wouldst  thee  mind,  my  son,  being  left  a  little 
poorer  Avhcn  I  am  gone  ?  " 
''F'^atherl" 

"  Well,  then,  in  a  few  days  I  will  hegin  selling  my 
wheat,  as  that  lad  has  advised  and  begged  me  to  do  these 
weeks  past.  He  ip  a  sharp  lad,  and  I  am  getting  old. 
Perhaps  he  is  right." 


86  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  "Who,  father  ?"  I  asked,  rather  hypocritically. 

"■  Thee  knowest  well  enough — John  Halifax." 

I  thought  it  best  to  say  no  more  ;  but  I  never  let  go  one 
thread  of  hope  which  could  draw  me  nearer  to  my  father's 
desire. 

On  the  Monday  morning  my  father  went  to  the  tan-yard 
as  usual.  I  sjDent  the  day  in  my  bed-room,  which  looked 
over  the  garden,  where  I  saw  nothing  but  the  waving  of 
the  trees  and  the  birds  hopping  over  the  smooth  grass  : 
heard  nothing  but  the  soft  chime,  hour  after  hour,  of  the 
Abbey  bells.  What  was  passing  in  the  world,  in  the  town, 
or  even  in  the  next  street,  was  to  me  faint  as  dreams. 

At  dinner-time  I  rose,  went  down  stairs,  and  waited  for 
my  father  ;  waited  one,  two,  three  hours.  It  was  very 
strange.  He  never  by  any  chance  overstayed  his  time, 
without  sending  a  message  home.  So,  after  some  considera- 
tion as  to  whether  I  dared  encroach  upon  his  formal  habits 
so  much,  and  after  much  advice  from  Jael,  who  betrayed 
more  anxiety  than  was  at  all  Avarranted  by  the  cause  she 
assigned,  viz.,  the  spoiled  dinner,  I  despatched  Jem  Wat- 
kins  to  the  tan -yard  to  see  after  his  master. 

He  came  back  with  ill  news.  The  lane  leading  to  the 
tan-yard  was  blocked  up  with  a  wild  mob.  Even  the  stolid, 
starved  patience  of  our  Norton  Bury  poor  had  come  to  an 
end  at  last — ^they  had  followed  the  example  of  many  others. 
There  was  a  bread-riot  in  the  town. 

God  only  knows  how  terrible  those  "riots"  were  ;  when 
the  people  rose  in  desperation,  not  from  some  delusion  of* 
crazy,  blood-thirsty  "patriotism,"  but  to  get  food  for  them- 
selves, their  wives,  and  children.  God  only  knows  what 
madness  was  in  each  individual  heart  of  that  concourse  of 
poor  wretches,  styled  "the  mob,"  when  every  man  took  up 
arms,  certain  that  there  were  before  him  but  two  alterna= 
tives,  starving  or — hanging. 

The  riot  here  was  scarcely  universal.  Norton  Bury  was 
not  a  large  place,  and  had  always  abundance  of  small-pox 
and  fevers  to  keep  the  poor  down  numerically.  Jem  said 
it  was  chiefly  about  our  mill  and  our  tan-yard  that  the  dis- 
turbance lay. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,  87 

"  And  where  is  riiy  father  ?  " 

Jem  "  didn't  know,"  and  looked  very  much  as  if  he 
didn't  care. 

"  Jael,  somebody  must  go  at  once,  and  find  my  father." 

"I  am  going,"  said  Jael,  who  had  ah-eady  put  on  her 
cloak  and  hood.  Of  course,  despite  all  her  opposition,  I 
went  too. 

The  tan-yard  was  deserted  ;  the  mob  had  divided,  and 
gone,  one  half  to  our  mill,  the  rest  to  another  that  was 
lower  down  the  river.  I  asked  of  a  poor  frightened  bark- 
cutter  if  she  knew  where  my  father  was  ?  She  thought 
he  was  gone  for  the  *' millingtary,"  but  Mr.  Halifax  was 
at  the  mill  now — she  hoped  no  harm  would  come  to  Mr. 
Halifax. 

Even  in  that  moment  of  alarm  I  felt  a  sense  of  pleasure. 
I  had  not  been  in  the  tan-yard  for  nearly  three  years.  I 
did  not  know  John  had  come  already  to  be  called  "  Mr. 
Halifax." 

There  was  nothing  for  me  but  to  wait  here  till  my  father 
returned.  He  could  not  surely  be  so  insane  as  to  go  to  the 
mill — and  John  was  there.  Terribly  was  my  heart  divided, 
but  my  duty  lay  with  my  father. 

Jael  sat  down  in  the  shed,  or  marched  restlessly  between 
the  tan-pits.  I  went  to  the  end  of  the  yard,  and  looked 
down  towards  the  mill.     What  a  half-hour  it  was  ! 

At  last,  exhausted,  I  sat  down  on  the  bark-heap  where 
John  and  I  had  once  sat  as  lads.  He  must  now  be  more 
than  twenty  ;  I  wondered  if  he  were  altered. 

"  Oh,  David  !  David  ! "  I  thought,  as  I  listened  eagerly 
for  any  sounds  abroad  in  the  town  ;  "  what  should  I  do  if 
any  harm  came  to  thee  ?  " 

This  minute  I  heard  a  footstep  crossing  the  yard.  No, 
it  was  not  my  father's — it  was  firmer,  quicker,  younger.  I 
sprang  from  the  bark-heap. 

"Phineas  \" 

"  John  ! " 

What  a  grasp  that  was — both  hands  !  and  how  fondly 
and  proudly  I  looked  up  in  his  face — the  still  boyish  face. 
But  the  figure  was  quite  that  of  a  man,  now. 


88  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

For  a  minute  we  forgot  ourselves  in  our  joy,  and  then  he 
let  go  my  hands,  saying  hurriedly — 

"  Where  is  your  father  ?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew  ! — Gone  for  the  soldiers,  they  say." 

"No,  not  that— he  would  never  do  that.  I  must  go  and 
look  for  him.     Good-bye." 

"  Nay,  dear  John  !" 

"  Can't — can't," — said  he,  firmly,  ''not  while  your  father 
forbids.     I  must  go."     And  he  was  gone. 

Though  my  heart  rebelled,  my  conscience  defended  him  ; 
marvelling  how  it  was  that  he  who  had  never  known  his 
father,  should  uphold  so  sternly  the  duty  of  filial  obedience. 
I  think  it  ought  to  act  as  a  solemn  warning  to  those  who 
exact  so  much  from  the  mere  fact  and  name  of  parenthood, 
without  having  in  any  way  fulfilled  its  duties,  that  orphans 
from  birth  often  revere  the  ideal  of  that  bond  far  more  than 
those  who  have  known  it  in  reality.  Always  excepting 
those  children  to  whose  blessed  lot  it  has  fallen  to  have  the 
ideal  realized. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  saw  him  and  my  father  enter  the 
tan-yard  together.  He  was  talking  earnestly,  and  my 
father  was  listening — ay,  listening — and  to  John  Halifax  ! 
But  whatever  the  argument  was,  it  failed  to  move  him. 
Greatly  troubled,  but  staunch  as  a  rock,  my  old  father  stood, 
resting  his  lame  foot  on  a  heap  of  hides.     I  went  to  meet  him. 

"  Phineas,"  said  John,  anxiously,  "'  come  and  help  me. 
No,  Abel  Fletcher,"  he  added,  rather  proudly,  in  repl}^ 
to  a  sharp  suspicious  glance  at  us  both  ;  "  your  son  and  I 
only  met  ten  minutes  ago,  and  have  scarcely  exchanged  a 
word.  But  we  cannot  waste  time  over  that  matter  now. 
Phineas,  help  me  to  persuade  your  father  to  save  his  prop- 
erty. He  will  not  call  for  the  aid  of  the  law,  because  he 
is  a  Friend.  Besides,  for  the  same  reason,  it  might  be 
useless  asking." 

"  Verily  ! "  said  my  father,  with  a  bitter  and  meaning 
smile. 

''But  he  might  get  his  own  men  to  defend  his  property, 
and  need  not  do  what  he  is  bent  on  doing — go  to  the  mill 
himself." 


JOHSr   HALIFAX.  89 

''Surely,"  was  all  Abel  Fletcher  said,  planting  his  oaken 
Btick  firmly,  us  firmly  as  his  will,  and  taking  his  way  to  the 
river-side,  in  the  direction  of  the  mill. 

I  caught  his  arm — "'  Father,  don't  go." 

"  My  son,"  said  he,  turning  on  me  one  of  his  "  iron 
looks,"  as  I  used  to  call  them — tokens  of  a  nature  that 
might  have  run  molten  once,  and  had  settled  into  a  hard, 
moulded  mass,  of  wliieh  nothing  could  afterwards  alter  one 
form,  or  erase  one  line — "  My  son,  no  opposition.  Any 
who  try  that  with  me,  fail.  If  those  fellows  had  waited 
two  days  more,  I  would  have  sold  all  my  wheat  at  a  hun- 
dred shillings  the  quarter  ;  noAV,  they  shall  have  nothing 
It  will  teach  them  wisdom  another  time.  Get  thee  safe 
home,  Phineas,  niy  son  ;  Jael,  go  thou  likewise." 

But  neither  went.  John  held  me  back  as  I  was  follow- 
ing my  father. 

"  He  will  do  it,  Phineas,  and  I  suppose  he  must.  Please 
God,  I'll  take  care  no  harm  touches  him — but  you  go 
home." 

That  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Fortunately,  the  time 
was  too  brief  for  argument,  so  the  discussion  soon  ended. 
He  followed  my  father,  and  I  followed  him.  For  Jael,  she 
disappeared. 

There  was  a  jirivate  path  from  the  tan-yard  to  the  mill, 
along  the  river  side  ;  by  this  we  went  in  silence.  When 
we  reached  the  spot,  it  was  deserted  ;  but  farther  down  the 
river  we  heard  a  scuffling,  and  saw  a  number  of  men  break- 
ing, down  our  garden  Avail. 

"  They  think  he  is  gone  home,"  whispered  John  ;  "  we'll 
get  in  here  the  safer.     Quick.  Phineas." 

We  crossed  the  little  bridge  ;  John  took  a  key  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  let  us  into  the  mill  by  a  small  door — the  onlv 
entrance,  and  that  was  barred  and  trebly  barred  within.  It 
had  good  need  to  be,  in  such  times. 

The  mill  v/as  a  queer,  musty,  silent  place,  especially  the 
machinery  room,  the  sole  flooring  of  which  was  the  dark, 
dangerous  stream.  We  stood  there  a  good  while — it  was 
the  safest  place,  having  no  windows.  Then  we  followed 
my  father  to  the  top  story,  where  he  kept  his  bags  of  grain 


90  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

There  were  very  many  ;  enough,  in  these  times,  to  make  a 
large  fortune  by — a  cursed  fortune,  wrung  out  of  human 
lives. 

"  Oh  !  how  could  my  father — " 

"Hush!"  whispered  John,  "it  was  for  his  son's  sake, 
you  know/' 

But  while  we  stood,  and  with  a  meaning,  but  rather  grim 
smile,  Abel  Fletcher  counted  his  bags,  worth  almost  as 
much  as  bags  of  gold — we  heard  a  hammering  at  the  door 
below.     The  rioters  were  come. 

Miserable  "  rioters  ?" — A  handful  of  weak,  starved  men 
— pelting  us  with  stones  and  words.  One  pistol-shot  might 
have  routed  them  all — but  my  father's  doctrine  of  non-re- 
sistance forbade.  Small  as  their  force  seemed,  there  was 
something  at  once  formidable  and  pitiful  in  the  low  howl 
that  reached  us  at  times. 

"  Bring  out  the  bags  ! — Us  mun  have  bread  !" 

"Throw  down  thy  corn,  Abel  Fletcher  I" 

"  Abel  Fletcher  ivill  throw  it  down  to  ye,  ye  knaves," 
said  my  father,  leaning  out  of  the  upper  window  ;  while  a 
sound,  half  curses,  half  cheers  of  triumph,  answered  him 
from  below. 

"That  is  well,"  exclaimed  John,  eagerly.  "Thank  you 
—  thank  you,  Mr,  Fletcher — I  knew  you  would  yield  at 
last." 

"  Didst  thee,  lad  ?  "  said  my  father,  stopping  short. 

"  Not  because  they  forced  you — not  to  save  your  life — 
but  because  it  was  right." 

"  Help  me  with  this  bag,"  was  all  the  reply. 

It  was  a  great  weight,  but  not  too  great  for  John's  young 
arm,  nervous  and  strong.     He  hauled  it  up. 

"  Now,  open  the  window — dash  the  panes  through — it 
matters  not.     On  to  the  window,  I  tell  thee." 

"  But  if  I  do,  the  bag  will  fall  into  the  river.  You  can- 
not — oh,  no  ! — you  cannot  mean  that ! " 

"  Haul  it  up  to  the  window,  John  Halifax." 

But  John  remained  immovable. 

"  I  must  do  it  myself,  then  ;"  and  in  the  desperate  effort 
he  made,  somehow  the  bag  of  grain  fell,  and  fell  on  his  lame 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  91 

foot.  Tortui'ed  into  frenzy  with  tlie  puin — or  else,  I  will 
still  believe,  my  old  father  would  not  have  done  such  a  deed 
— his  failinjy  strength  seemed  doubled  and  trebled.  In  an 
instant  more  he  had  got  the  bag  half  through  the  window, 
and  the  next  sound  we  heard  was  its  heavy  splash  in  the 
river  below. 

Flung  into  the  river,  the  precious  wheat,  and  in  the  very 
sight  of  the  famished  rioters  !  A  howl  of  fury  and  despair 
arose.  Some  plunged  into  the  water,  ere  the  eddies  left  by 
the  falling  mass  had  ceased — but  it  was  too  late.  A  sharp 
substance  in  the  river's  bed  had  cut  the  bag,  and  we  saw 
thrown  up  to  the  surface,  and  whirled  down  the  Avon, 
thousands  of  dancing  grains.  A  few  of  the  men  SM'am,  or 
waded  after  them,  clutching  a  handful  here  or  there — but 
by  the  mill  pool  the  river  ran  swift,  and  the  wheat  had  all  soon 
disappeared,  except  what  renuuned  in  the  bag  when  it  was 
drawn  on  shore.     Over  even  that  they  fought  like  demons. 

We  could  not  look  at  them — John  and  I.  He  i)ut  liis 
hand  over  his  eyes,  muttering  the  Name  that,  young  man 
as  he  was,  I  had  never  yet  heard  irreverently  and  thought- 
lessly on  his  lii)s.  It  was  a  sight  that  would  move  any  one 
to  cry  for  pity  unto  the  Great  Father  of  the  human  family. 

Abel  Fletcher  sat  on  his  remaining  bags,  in  an  exhaus- 
tion that  I  think  was  not  all  physical  pain.  The  paroxysm 
of  anger  past,  he,  ever  a  just  man,  could  not  fail  to  be  struck 
with  what  he  had  done.  He  seemed  subdued,  even  to  some- 
thing like  remorse. 

John  looked  at  him,  and  looked  away.  For  a  minute  he 
listened  in  silence  to  the  shouting  outside,  and  then  turned 
to  my  father. 

"  Sir,  you  must  come  now.  Not  a  second  to  lose — they 
will  fire  the  mill  next." 

"  Let  them." 

"  Let  them  ? — and  Phineas  is  here  ! " 

My  poor  father  !     He  rose  at  once. 

We  got  him  down  stairs— he  was  very  lame — his  ruddy 
face  all  drawn  and  white  with  j^ain  ;  but  he  did  not  speak 
one  word  of  opposition,  or  utter  a  groan  of  complaint. 

The  flour-mill  was  built  on  piles,  in  the  centre  of  the  nar- 


92  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

row  river.  It  was  only  a  few  stejDS  of  bridge-work  to  either 
bank.  The  little  door  was  on  the  Norton  Bury  side,  and 
was  hid  from  the  opposite  shore,  where  the  rioters  had  now 
collected.  In  a  minute,  we  had  crept  forth,  and  dashed  out 
of  sight,  in  the  narrow  path  which  had.  been  made  from  the 
mill  to  the  tan-yard, 

"  Will  you  take  my  arm  ?  we  must  get  on  fast,'' 

"  Home  ? "  said  my  father,  as  John  led  him  passively 
along. 

"No,  sir,  not  home  :  they  are  there  before  you.  Your 
life's  not  safe  an  hour — unless,  indeed,  you  get  soldiers  to 
guard  it," 

Abel  Fletcher  gave  a  decided  negative.  The  stern  old 
Quaker  held  to  his  principles  still. 

"  Then  you  must  hide  for  a  time — both  of  you.  Come 
to  my  room.  You  will  be  secure  there.  Urge  him,  Phineas 
— for  your  sake  and  his  own." 

But  my  poor  broken-down  father  needed  no  urging. 
Grasping  more  tightly  both  John's  arm  and  mine,  which 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  leaned  upon,  he  submitted 
to  be  led  whither  we  chose.  So,  after  this  long  interval  of 
time,  I  once  more  stood  in  Sally  Watkins'  small  attic  ;  where 
ever  since  I  first  brought  him  there,  John  Halifax  had 
lived. 

Sally  knew  not  of  our  entrance  ;  she  was  out,  watching 
the  rioters.  No  one  saw  us  but  Jem,  and  Jem's  honor  was 
safe  as  a  rock.  I  knew  that  in  the  smile  with  which  he 
pulled  oif  his  cap  to  "Mr.  Halifax." 

"Now,"  said  John,  hastily  smoothing  his  bed,  so  that 
my  father  might  lie  down,  and  wrapping  his  cloak  round 
me — "you  must  both  be  very  still.  You  will  likely  have 
to  spend  the  night  here.  Jem  shall  bring  you  a  light  and 
supper.     You  will  make  yourself  easy,  Abel  Fletcher  ?  " 

"  Ay."  It  was  strange  to  see  how  decidedly,  yet  respect- 
fully, John  spoke,  and  how  quietly  my  father  answered. 

"  And  Phineas" — he  put  his  arm  round  iny  shoulder  in 
his  old  way — "you  will  take  care  of  yourself.  Are  you  any 
stronger  than  you  used  to  be  ?" 

I  clasped  his  hand,  without  reply.     My  heart  melted  to 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  93 

hear  that  tendc;!'  accent,  so  familiar  once.      All  was  happen- 
ing for  the  best,  if  it  only  gave  me  back  David. 

"  Now  good-bye — I  must  be  off." 

"  Whither  ?  "  said  my  father,  rousing  himself. 

"  To  try  and  save  the  house  and  the  tan-yard — I  fear  we 
must  give  up  the  mill.  No,  don't  hold  me,  Phineas.  I 
run  no  risk  :  everybody  knows  me.  Besides,  I  am  young. 
There  !  see  after  your  father.  I  shall  come  back  in  good 
time." 

He  grasped  my  hands  Avarmly — then  unloosed  them  ;  and 
I  heard  his  stoj)  descending  the  stair-case.  The  room 
seemed  to  darken  when  he  went  away. 

The  evening  passed  A^ery  slowly.  My  father,  exhausted 
with  pain,  lay  on  the  bed  and  dozed.  I  sat  watching  the 
sky  over  the  housetops,  which  met  in  the  old  angles,  with 
the  same  blue  peeps  between.  I  half  forgot  all  the  day's 
events — it  seemed  but  two  weeks,  instead  of  two  years  ago, 
that  John  and  I  had  sat  in  this  attic-window,  conning  our 
Shakspeare  for  the  first  time. 

Ere  twilight,  I  examined  John's  room.  It  was  a  good  deal 
changed  ;  the  furniture  was  improved  ;  a  score  of  ingenious 
little  contrivances  made  the  tiny  attic  into  a  cosy  bed- 
chamber. .  One  corner  was  full  of  shelves,  laden  with  books 
chiefly  of  a  scientific  and  practical  nature.  John's  taste  did 
not  lead  him  into  the  current  literature  of  the  day  ;  CoAvper, 
Akenside,  and  Peter  Pindar  Avere  alike  indifferent  to  him. 
I  found  among  his  books  no  poet  but  Shakspeare. 

He  evidently  still  practised  his  old  mechanical  arts. 
There  Avas  lying  in  the  AvindoAv  a  telescojie — the  cylinder 
made  of  pasteboard — into  Avhich  the  lenses  were  ingeni- 
ously fitted.  A  rough  telescojie-stand,  of  common  deal, 
stood  on  the  ledge  of  the  roof,  from  Avliich  the  field  of  vicAv 
must  have  been  satisfactory  enough  to  the  young  astronomer. 
Other  fragments  of  skilful  handiAvork,  chiefly  meant  for 
machinery  on  a  Lilliputian  scale,  Avere  strewn  about  the 
floor  ;  and  on  a  chair,  just  as  he  had  left  it  that  morning, 
stood  a  loom,  yery  small  in  size,  but  perfect  in  its  neat 
workmanship,  with  a  few  threads  already  woven,  making 
some  fabric  not  so  very  unlike  cloth. 


94  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

I  had  gone  over  all  these  things,  without  noticing  that 
my  father  was  awake,  and  that  his  sharp  eye  had  observed 
them  likewise. 

"The  lad  works  hard,"  said  he,  half  to  himself.  "He 
has  useful  hands,  and  a  clear  head."  I  smiled,  but  took 
no  notice  whatever. 

Evening  began  to  close  in — less  peacefully  than  usual — ■ 
over  jSTorton  Bury  ;  for,  whenever  I  ventured  to  open  the 
windov/,  v,o  heard  nnusual  and  ominous  sounds  abroad  in 
the  town.  I  trembled  inwardly.  But  John  was  prudent, 
as  well  as  brave  :  besides,  "everybody  knew  him."  Surely 
he  was  safe. 

Faithfully  at  suj^per-time,  Jem  entered.  But  he  could 
tell  us  no  news  ;  he  had  kept  watch  all  the  time  on  the 
staircase,  by  desire  of  ' '  Mr.  Halifax  *' — so  he  informed  me. 
My  father  asked  no  questions — not  even  about  his  mill. 
From  his  look,  sometimes,  I  fancied  he  yet  beheld  in  fancy 
these  starving  men  fighting  over  the  precious  food,  destroyed 
so  wilfully — nay,  wickedly.  Heaven  forgive  me,  his  son,  if 
I  too  harshly  use  the  word  ;  for  I  think,  till  the  day  of  his 
death,  that  cruel  sight  never  wholly  vanished  from  the  eyes 
of  my  poor  father. 

Jem  seemed  talkatively  inclined.  He  observed,  that 
"'  master  was  looking  sprack  agin  ;  and  warn't  this  a  tidy 
room,  like  ?  " 

I  praised  it ;  and  supposed  his  mother  was  better  off  now. 

"Ay,  she  be.  Mr.  Halifax  pays  her  a  good  rent  ;  and 
she  sees  ^m  made  comfortable.  Not  that  he  wants  much, 
l>eing  out  pretty  much  all  day." 

"  What  is  he  busy  about  of  nights  ?" 

"  Laming,"  said  Jem,  with  an  awed  look.  "  He's  terri- 
ble wise.  But  for  all  that,  sometimes  he'll  teach  Charley 
and  me  abito'  theEeadamadeasy."  (Keading-made-easy,  I 
suppose,  John's  hopeful  jiupil  meant.)  "  He's  very  kind  to 
we,  and  to  mother  too.     Her  says,  that  her  do,  Mr.  Halifax — " 

"Send  the  fellow  away,  Phineas,"  muttered  my  father, 
turning  his  face  to  the  wall. 

I  obeyed.  But  first  I  asked,  in  a  whisper,  if  Jem  had 
any  idea  when  "'  Mr.  Halifax  "  would  be  back  ? 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  95 

"  He  said,  may  be  not  till  moi-iiiiig.  Them's  bad  folk 
about.  He  was  going  to  stop  all  night,  either  at  your 
house  or  at  the  tan-yard,  for  fear  of  a  blaze." 

The  word  made  my  father  start ;  for  in  these  times,  well 
we  knew  what  poor  folk  meant  by  a  "  blaze." 

"  My  house — my  tan-yard — I  nuist  get  up  this  instant 
— help  me.  He  ought  to  come  back — tluit  lad  Halifax. 
There's  a  score  of  my  men  at  hand — Wilkes,  and  John- 
son, and  Jacob  r)aines — I  say,  Phineas — But  thee  know'st 
nothing." 

He  tried  to  dress,  and  to  drag  on  his  heavy  shoes  ;  but 
fell  back,  sick  with  exhaustion  and  j)ain.  I  made  him  lie 
down  again  on  the  bed. 

"  Phineas,  lad,"  said  he,  brokenly,  '*  thy  old  father  is 
getting  as  helpless  as  thee." 

So  we  kept  watch  together,  all  the  night  through  ;  some- 
times dozing,  sometimes  waking  up  at  some  slight  noise 
below,  or  at  the  flicker  of  the  long-wicked  candle,  which 
fear  converted  into  the  glare  of  some  incendiary  fire — 
doubtless  our  own  home.  Now  and  then,  I  heard  my 
father  mutter  something  about  '-  the  lad  being  safe/'  X 
said  nothing.     I  only  prayed. 

Thus  the  night  wore  away. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

After  midnight — I  know  not  how  long,  for  I  lost  count 
of  the  hours  by  the  Abbey  chimes,  and  our  light  had  gone 
out — after  midnight  I  heard  by  my  father's  breathing,  that 
he  was  asleep.  I  was  thankful  to  see  it  for  his  sake,  and 
also  for  another  reason. 

I  could  not  sleep — all  my  faculties  were  preternaturally 
alive  ;  my  weak  body  and  timid  mind  became  strong  and 
active,  able  to  compass  anything.  For  that  one  night,  at 
least,  I  felt  myself  a  man. 

My  father  was  a  very  sound  sleeper.  I  knew  nothing 
would  disturb  him  till  daylight  ;  therefore  my  divided  duty 
was  at  an  end.  I  left  him,  and  crept  down  stairs  into  Sally 
Watkins'  kitchen.  It  was  silent,  only  the  faithful  warder, 
Jem,  dozed  over  the  dull  fire.  I  touched  him  on  the  shoul- 
der— at  which  he  collared  me  and  neai'ly  knocked  me  down. 

"  Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Phineas — hope  I  didn't  hurt'ee,  sir  ?" 
cried  he,  all  but  whimpering  ;  for  Jem,  a  big  lad  of  fifteen, 
was  the  most  tender-hearted  fellow  imaginable.  "  I  thought 
it  were  some  of  them  folk  that  Mr.  Halifax  ha'  gone  among." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Halifax  ?  " 

"  Doan't  know,  sir — wish  I  did  !  wouldn't  be  long  a  find- 
ing out,  though — on'y  he  says  :  '  Jem,  you  stop  'ere,  wi' 
they,'"  (pointing  his  thumb  up  the  staircase).  "  So,  Mas- 
ter Phineas,  I  stop." 

And  Jem  settled  himself,  with  a  doggedly  obedient,  but 
most  dissatisfied,  air.  down  by  the  fire-place.  It  was  evi- 
dent nothing  would  move  him  thence  :  so  he  was  as  safe  as 
a  guard  over  my  poor  father's  slumber  as  the  mastiff  in  the 
."-an-yard,  who  was  as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  as  docile  as  a  child. 
My  last  lingering  hesitation  ended. 

96 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  97 

"  Jem,  lend  me  your  coat  and  hat — I'm  going  out  into 
the  town." 

Jem  was  so  astonished,  that  he  stood  with  open  mouth 
while  I  took  the  said  garments  from  him,  and  unbolted  the 
door.  At  last  it  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  he  ought  to 
intercept  me. 

"But,  sir,  Mr.  Halifax  said — " 

"  I  am  going  to  look  for  Mr.  Halifax.'' 

And  I  escaped   outside.     Anything   beyond   his   literal 
duty  did  not  strike  the  faithful  Jem.     He  stood  on  the 
loor-sill  and  gazed  after  me  with  a  hopeless  expression. 

"  I  s'pose  you  mun  have  your  way,  sir  ;  but  Mr.  Halifax 
said,  'Jem,  you  stop  y'ere,' — and  y'ere  I  stop." 

He  went  in,  and  I  heard  him  lx)lting  the  door,  with  a 
sullen  determination,  as  if  he  would  have  kept  guard  against 
it — waiting  for  John — until  doomsday. 

I  stole  along  the  dark  alley  into  the  street.  It  was  very 
silent — I  need  not  have  borrowed  Jem's  exterior,  in  order 
to  creep  through  a  throng  of  maddened  rioters.  There  was 
no  sign  of  any  such,  except  that  under  one  of  the  three  oil- 
lamps  that  lit  the  night-darkness  of  Norton  Bury,  lay  a  few 
smouldering  hanks  of  hemp,  well  resined.  They,  then,  had 
thought  of  that  dreadful  engine  of  destruction — fire.  Had 
my  terrors  been  true  ?  Our  house — and  perhaps  John 
within  it ! 

On  I  ran,  speeded  by  a  dull  murmur,  which  I  fancied  I 
heard  ;  and  still  there  was  no  one  in  the  street — no  one  ex- 
cept the  Abbey-watchman  lounging  in  his  box.  I  roused 
him,  and  asked  if  all  was  safe  ? — where  were  the  rioters  ? 

''  What  rioters  ?  " 

"  At  Abel  Fletcher's  mill ;  they  may  be  at  his  house 
now — " 

"  Ay,  I  think  they  be." 

"  And  will  not  one  man  in  the  town  help  him  ;  no  con- 
stables— no  law  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  he's  a  Quaker  ;  the  law  don't  help  Quakers." 

That  was  the  truth — the  hard,  grinding  truth — in  those 
days.  Liberty,  justice,  were  idle  names  to  JSTonconformists 
of  every  kind  ;  and  all  they  knew  of  the  glorious  constitu- 


98  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

tion  of  English  law,  Avas  when  its  iron  hand  was  tnrned 
against  them. 

I  had  forgotten  this  ;  bitterly  I  remembered  it  now.  So, 
wasting  no  more  words,  I  flew  along  the  church-yard,  until 
I  saw,  shining  against  the  boles  of  the  chestnut-trees,  a  red 
light.  It  was  one  of  the  hempen  torches.  Now,  at  last, 
I  had  got  into  the  midst  of  that  small  body  of  men,  "tht* 
rioters." 

They  were  a  mere  handful — not  above  two  score — appa- 
rently the  relics  of  the  band  which  had  attacked  the  mill, 
joined  with  a  few  jilough-lads  from  the  country  around. 
But  they  were  desperate  ;  they  had  come  up  the  Colthaia 
road  so  quietly,  that  except  this  faint  murmur,  neither  1 
nor  any  one  in  the  town  could  have  told  they  were  near. 
Wherever  they  had  been  ransacking,  as  yet  they  had  nof. 
attacked  my  father's  house  ;  it  stood  up  on  the  other  side 
the  road — barred,  black,  silent. 

I  heard  a   muttering — ''  Th'  old  man  bean't  there,"— 
''ISIobody  knows  where  he  be."     No,  thank  God  ! 

"  Be  us  all  y'ere  ?  "  said  the  man  with  the  torch,  hoMing 
it  up  so  as  to  see  round  him.  It  was  well  then  that  I  ap- 
peared as  Jem  "Watkins.  But  no  one  noticed  me,  except 
one  man,  v/ho  skulked  behind  a  tree,  and  of  whom  I  was 
rather  afraid,  as  he  was  apparently  intent  on  watching, 

"  Eeady,  lads  ?     Now  for  the  rosin  !     Blaze  \\u  out." 

But,  in  the  eager  scuffle,  the  torch,  the  only  one  alight, 
was  knocked  down  and  trodden  out,  A  volley  of  oaths 
arose,  though  whose  fault  it  was  no  one  seemed  to  kno\v' ; 
but  I  missed  my  man  from  behind  the  tree — nor  found  him 
till  after  the  angry  throng  had  rushed  on  to  the  nearest 
lamp.  One  of  them  was  left  behind,  standing  close  to  our 
own  railings.  He  looked  round  to  see  if  none  were  by,  and 
then  sprang  over  the  gate.  Dark  as  it  was,  I  thought  I 
recognized  him. 

'^John?" 

"Phineas?"  He  was  beside  me  in  a  bound,  "How 
could  you  do " 

"  I  could  do  anything  to-night.  But  you  are  safe  ;  no 
one  has  harmed,  you.     Oh,  thank  Grod,  you  are  not  hurt !  " 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  99 

And  I  clung  to  his  arm — my  friend,  wliom  I  had  missed 
BO  long,  so  sorely. 

He  held  me  tight — his  heart  felt  as  mine,  only  more 
silently. 

"  Now,  Pliineas,  we  have  a  minute's  time.  I  must  have 
you  safe — we  uiust  go  into  the  house." 

'' Who  is  there  ?■' 

' '  Jael  ;  she  is  as  good  as  a  host  of  constables  ;  she  has 
braved  the  fellows  once  to-night,  but  they're  back  again,  or 
will  be  directly." 

"And  the  mill  ?" 

"  Safe,  as  yet ;  I  have  had  three  of  the  tan-yard  men 
■there  since  yesterday  morning,  though  your  father  did  not 
know.  I  have  been  going  to  and  fro  all  night  betAveen  there 
and  here,  Avaiting  till  the  rioters  should  comeback  from  the 
Severn  mills.     Hist  I  here  they  are — I  say,  Jael  'f  " 

He  tapped  at  the  window.  In  a  few  seconds  Jael  liad 
unbarred  the  door,  let  us  in,  and  Closed  it  again  securely, 
mounting  guard  behind  it  with  something  that  looked  very 
like  my  father's  jiistols,  though  I  Avould  not  discredit  her 
among  our  peaceful  society,  by  positively  stating  the  fact. 

"Bravo!"  said  John,  when  we  stood  altogether  in  the 
barricaded  house,  and  heard  the  threatening  murmur  of 
voices  and  feet  outside.  "  Bravo,  Jael  !  The  wife  of 
Heber  the  Kenite  was  no  braver  Avoman  than  you  ! " 

She  looked  gratified,  and  followed  John  obediently  from 
room  to  room. 

"  I  have  done  all  as  thee  bade  me — thee  art  a  sensible  lad, 
John  Halifax.     We  are  secure,  I  think." 

Secure  ?  bolts  and  bars  secure  against  fire  ?  For  that 
was  threatening  us  noAV. 

"They  can't  mean  it — surely  they  can't  mean  it,"  re- 
peated John,  as  the  cry  of  "  Burn  'un  out ! "  rose  louder 
and  loudc)'. 

But  they  did  mean  it.  From  the  attic  window  we 
watched  them  light  torch  after  torch,  sometimes  throwing 
one  at  the  house, — but  it  fell  harmless  against  the  staunch 
oaken  door,  and  blazed  itself  out  on  our  stone  steps.  All 
it  did  Avas  to  show  more  plainly  than  even  daylight  had 


100  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

shown,  the  gaunt,  ragged  forms  and  pinched  faces,  furious 
with  famine. 

John,  as  well  as  I,  recoiled  at  that  'Tiiserable  sight. 

''^ril  speak  to  them,"  he  said.  "Unbar  the  window, 
Jael ;  "  and  before  I  could  hinder,  he  was  leaning  right  out. 
"Halloa,  there  !" 

At  his  loud  and  commanding  voice  a  wave  of  up-turned 
faces  surged  forward,  expectant. 

"  My  men,  do  you  know  what  you  are  about  ?  To  burn 
down  a  gentleman's  house  is — hanging." 

There  was  a  hush,  and  then  a  shout  of  derision. 

"Not  a  Quaker's  !  nobody "11  get  hanged  for  burning  out 
a  Quaker  ! " 

"  That  be  true  enough,"  muttered  Jael  between  her  teeth. 
"  We  must  e'en  fight,  as  Mordecai's  people  fought,  hand  to 
hand,  until  they  slew  their  enemies." 

"  Fight !  "  repeated  John,  half  to  himself,  as  he  stood  at 
the  now-closed  window,  against  which  more  than  one  blaz- 
ing torch  began  to  rattle.  "  Fight — with  these  ? — What 
are  you  doing,  Jael  ?  " 

For  sbe  had  taken  down  a  large  Book — the  last  Book  in 
the  house  she  would  have  taken  under  less  critical  circum- 
stances, and  with  it  was  trying  to  stop  up  a  broken  pane. 

"  No,  my  good  Jael,  not  this  ; "  and  he  carefully  replaced 
the  volume  ;  that  volume  in  which  he  might  have  read,  as 
day  after  day,  and  year  after  year,  we  Christians  generally 
do  read,  such  plain  words  as  these — "  Love  your  enemies  ;  " 
"  bless  them  that  curse  you  ;  "  '^ pray  for  them  that  dospite- 
fully  use  you  and  persecute  you." 

A  minute  or  two  John  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  Book, 
thinking.     Then  he  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Phineas,  I'm  going  to  try  a  new  plan — at  least,  one  so 
old,  that  it's  almost  new.  Whether  it  succeeds  or  no,  you'll 
bear  me  witness  to  your  father  that  I  did  it  for  the  best,  and 
did  it  because  I  thought  it  right.     Now  for  it."  » 

To  my  horror,  he  threw  up  the  window  wide,  and  leant 
out. 

"  My  men,  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  roaring  sea.     The 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  101 

only  answer  was  a  shower  of  missiles,  wliicli  missed  their 
aim.  The  rioters  were  too  far  off — our  spiked  iron  railings, 
eight  feet  high  or  more,  Ijeing  a  barrier  which  none  had  yet 
ventured  to  climb.  But  at  length  one  random  stone  hit 
John  on  the  chest. 

I  pulled  him  in,  but  he  declared  he  was  not  hurt.  Terri- 
fied, I  implored  him  not  to  risk  his  life. 

"  Life  is  not  always  the  first  thing  to  be  thought  of,"  said 
he,  gently.  "  Don't  be  afraid —  I  shall  come  to  no  harm. 
But  I  mud  do  what  I  think  right,  if  it  is  to  be  done." 

While  he  spoke,  I  could  bai-dly  hear  liiiu  for  the  bellow- 
ings  outside.     More  savage  still  grew  the  cry — 

"  Burn  'em  out !  burn  'em  out !  They  be  onlv  Qua- 
kers!"     ,  _     '  ' 

"  There's  not  a  minute  to  lose — stop — let  me  think — Jael, 
is  that  a  pistol  ?" 

"  Loaded.""  she  said,  handing  it  over  to  him  with  a  kind 
of  stern  delight.  Certainly,  Jael  was  not  meant  to  be  a 
Friend. 

John  ran  down  stairs,  and  before  I  guessed  his  purpose, 
had  unboiled  the  li:ill-door,  and  stood  on  the  fiight  of  steps 
in  full  view  of  the  mob. 

There  was  no  bringing  him  back,  so  of  course  I  followed. 
A  pillar  sheltered  me — I  do  not  think  he  saw  me,  though  I 
stood  close  behind  him. 

So  sudden  had  been  his  act,  that  even  the  rioters  did  not 
seeui  to  have  noticed,  or  clearly  understood  it,  till  the  next 
lighted  torch  showed  them  the  young  man  standing  there, 
with  his  back  to  the  door — out  side  the  door. 

The  sight  fairly  confounded  them.  Even  I  felt  that  for 
the  moment  he  was  safe.  They  Avere  awed — nay,  jDaralyzed, 
by  his  daring. 

But  the  storm  raged  too  fiercely  to  be  lulled,  except  for 
one  brief  minute.     A  confusion  of  voices  burst  out  afresh — 

V  Who  be  thee  ?  "_"  It's  one  o'  the  Quakers."—"  No,  he 
bean't." — "  Burn  "un,  anyhow."—"  Touch  "un,  if  ye  dare." 

There  was  evidently  a  division  arising.  One  big  man, 
who  had  made  himself  very  prominent  all  along,  seemed 
trying  to  calm  the  tumult. 


102  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

John  stood  his  ground.  Once  a  torch  was  flung  at  him 
— he  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
hurl  it  back  again,  but  he  did  not ;  he  only  threw  it  down, 
and  stamped  it  out  safely  with  his  foot.  This  simple  action 
had  a  wonderful  effect  on  the  crowd. 

The  big  fellow  advanced  to  the  gate,  and  called  John  by 
his  name. 

"  Is  that  you.  Jacob  Baines  ?  I  am  sorry  to  see  you 
here." 

'^Beye,  sir?" 

"  AVhat  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Nought  wi'  thee.     We  wants  Abel  Fletcher.     Where's 
um  ?" 
•     "  I  shall  certainly  not  tell  you." 

As  John  said  this,  again  the  noise  arose,  and  again  Jacob 
Baines  seemed  to  liave  power  to  quiet  tlie  rest. 

John  Halifax  never  stirred.  Evidently  he  was  pretty 
well  known.  I  caught  many  a  stray  sentence,  such  as, 
''Don't  hurt  the  lad." — "He  were  kind  to  my  lad,  he 
were." — "No,  he  be  a  real  gentleman." — "No,  he  comed 
here  as  poor  as  us,"  and  the  like.  At  length,  one  voice, 
sharj)  and  shrill,  was  heard  above  the  rest. 

"  I  zay,  young  man,  didst  ever  know  what  it  was  to  be 
pretty  nigh  vamished  ?  " 

"Ay,  many  a  time." 

The  answer,  so  brief,  so  unexpected,  struck  a  great  hush 
into  the  throng.     Then  the  same  voice  cried — 

"  Speak  up,  man  !  we  won't  hurt  'ee  !  You  be  one  of 
we." 

"  No,  I  am  not  one  of  you.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  come  in 
the  night  and  burn  my  master's  house  down." 

I  expected  an  outbreak,  but  none  came.  They  listened, 
as  it  were,  by  compulsion,  to  the  clear,  manly  voice  that 
had  not  in  it  one  shade  of  fear. 

"  What  do  you  do  it  for  ?"  John  continued.  "  All  be- 
cause he  would  not  sell  you,  or  give  you,  his  wheat.  Even 
so — it  was  his  wheat,  not  yours.  May  not  a  man  dp  what 
he  likes  with  his  own  ?" 

The  argument  seemed  to  strike  home.     There  is  alwg^ys 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  103 

a  lurking  sense  of  rude  justice  in  u  mob — ut  least,  a  British 
mob. 

"  Don't  you  see  how  foolish  you  were  ?  You  tried  threats, 
too.  Now  you  all  know  Mr.  Flett'her  ;  you  are  his  men — 
some  of  you.     He  is  not  a  man  to  be  threatened." 

This  seemed  to  be  taken  rather  angrily  ;  but  John  went 
on  speaking,  as  if  he  did  not  observe  the  fact. 

"  Nor  am  I  one  to  be  threatened,  neither.  Look  here — 
the  first  one  of  you  who  attempted  to  break  into  ^Ir. 
Fletcher's  house,  I  should  most  certainly  have  shot.  But 
I'd  rather  not  shoot  you,  poor,  starving  fellows  !  I  know 
what  it  is  to  be  hungry.  I'm  sorry  f<»i-  you — sorry  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart." 

There  was  no  mistaking  that  compassionate  accerit,  nor 
the  murmur  which  followed  it. 

"But  what  must  us  do,  Mr.  Halifax?"  cried  .Jacob 
Baines  :  "us  be  starved,  a'most.  What's  the  good  o'  talk- 
ing to  we  ?  " 

John's  countenance  relaxed.  I  saw  him  lift  his  head  and 
shake  his  hair  back,  with  that  pleased  gesture  I  remembered 
so  well  of  old.     He  went  down  to  tlie  locked  gate. 

"  Suppose  I  gave  you  something  to  eat,  would  you  listen 
to  me  afterwards  ?  " 

There  rose  up  a  frenzied  shout  of  assent.  Poor  wretches  ? 
they  were  fighting  for  no  principle,  true  or  false,  only  for 
bare  life.  They  would  have  bartered  their  very  souls  for  a 
mouthful  of  bread. 

'-  You  must  promise  to  be  peaceable,"  said  John,  again, 
very  resolutely,  as  soon  as  he  could  obtain  a  hearing. 
"  You  are  Norton  Bury  folk,  I  know  you.  I  could  get 
every  one  of  you  hanged,  even  though  Abel  Fletcher  is  a 
Quaker.     Mind,  you'll  be  peaceable  ?  " 

"Ay — ay  !  Some'at  to  eat ;  give  us  some'at  to  eat." 

John  Halifax  called  out  to  Jael  ;  Ijade  her  bring  all  the 
food  of  every  kind  that  there  was  in  the  house,  and  give  it 
to  him  out  of  the  parloi-  window.  She  obeyed — I  marvel 
now  to  think  of  it — but  she  implicitly  obeyed.  Only  I 
heard  her  fix  the  bar  to  the  closed  front  door,  and  go  back, 
\yth  a  strange,  sharp  sob,  to  her  station  at  the  hall  window, 


104  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

"  Now,  my  lads,  come  in  ! "  and  he  unlocked  the  gate. 

They  came  thronging  up  the  steps,  not  more  than  two 
score,  I  imagined,  in  spite  of  the  noise  they  had  made.  But 
two  score  of  such  famished,  desperate  men,  God  grant  I 
may  never  again  see  ! 

John  divided  the  food  as  well  as  he  could  among  them  ; 
they  fell  to  it  like  wild  beasts.  Meat;  cooked  or  raw,  loaves, 
vegetables,  meal ;  all  came  alike,  and  were  clutched, 
gnawed,  and  scrambled  for,  in  the  fierce  selfishness  of  hun- 
ger.    Afterwards  there  was  a  call  for  drink. 

"  Water,  Jael ;  bring  them  water.'" 

"  Beer  !  "  shouted  some. 

''Water,"  repeated  John.  "Nothing  but  water.  I'll 
have  no  drunkards  rioting  at  my  master's  door." 

And,  either  by  chance  or  design,  he  let  them  hear  the 
click  of  his  pistol.  But  it  was  hardly  needed.  They  were 
all  cowed  by  a  mightier  weapon  still — the  best  weapon  a 
man  can  use — his  own  firm,  indomitable  will. 

At  leno;th  all  the  food  we  had  in  the  house  was  consumed. 
John  told  them  so  ;  and  they  believed  him.  Little  enough, 
indeed,  was  sufficient  for  some  of  them  ;  wasted  with  long 
famine,  they  turned  sick  and  faint,  and  dropped  down  even 
with  bread  in  their  mouths,  unable  to  swallow  it.  Others 
gorged  themselves  to  the  full,  and  then  lay  along  the  steps, 
supine  as  satisfied  brutes.  Only  a  few  sat  and  ate  like 
rational  human  beings  ;  and  there  was  but  one,  the  little, 
shrill-voiced  man,  who  asked  me  if  he  might  "  tak'  a  bit  o' 
bread  to  the  old  wench  at  home  ?  " 

Jolm,  hearing,  turned,  and  for  the  first  time  noticed  me. 

"  Phineas,  it  was  very  wrong  of  you  ;  but  there  is  no 
danger  now." 

No,  there  was  none — not  even  for  Abel  Fletcher's  son.  1 
stood  safe  by  John's  side,  very  happy,  very  proud. 

"  Well,  my  men,"  he  said,  looking  round  with  a  smile, 
'Miave  you  had  enough  to  eat  ?" 

"  Oh,  ay  ! "  they  all  cried. 

And  one  man  added — "  Thank  the  Lord  !" 

"  That's  right,  Jacob  Baines  :  and,  another  time,  trusi 
the  Lord.     You  wouldn't  then  have  been  abroad  this  sum- 


JOHTSr    HALIFAX.  105 

mer  morning" — ujid  he  pointed  to  the  cTawn  just  reddening 
in  the  sky — "this  quiet,  blessed  summer  morning,  burning 
and  rioting,  bringing  yourselves  to  the  gallows,  and  your 
children  to  starvation." 

"  They  be  nigh  that  a'ready,"  said  Jacob,  sullenly.  "  Us 
men  ha^  gotten  a  meal,  thankee  for  it  ;  but  what '11  become 
o'  the  little  'uns  at  home  ?  I  say,  Mr.  Halifax/'  and  he 
seemed  waxing  desperate  again,  '•'  we  must  get  some  food 
somehow." 

John  turned  away,  his  countenance  very  sad.  Another 
of  the  men  plucked  at  him  from  behind. 

"  Sir,  when  thee  was  a  poor  lad,  I  lent  thee  a  rug  to 
sleep  on  ;  I  doan't  grudge'ee  getting  on  ;  you  was  born  for 
a  gentleman,  sure-l}-.  But  Master  Fletcher  be  a  hard 
man." 

"  And  a  just  one,"  persisted  John.  "  You  that  work  for 
him,  did  he  ever  stint  you  of  a  halfj)enny  ?  If  you  had 
come  to  him  and  said,  *  Master,  times  are  hard,  we  can't 
live  upon  our  wages,'  he  might — I  don't  say  that  he  would 
— but  he  might  even  have  given  you  the  food  you  tried  to 
steal." 

"  D'ye  think  he'd  give  it  us  now  ?  "  And  Jacob  Baines, 
the  big,  gaunt,  savage  fellow,  who  had  been  the  ringleader 
— the  same,  too,  who  had  sj^oken  of  his  '  little  'uns  ' — came 
and  looked  steadily  in  John's  face. 

"  I  knew  thee  as  a  lad  ;  thee'rt  a  young  man  now,  as  Avill 
be  a  father  some  o'  these  days.  Oh  !  Mr.  Halifax,  may'ee 
ne'er  want  a  meal  o'  good  meat  for  the  missus  and  the 
babbies  at  home,  if  ee'II  get  a  bit  o'  bread  for  our'n  this 
day." 

"  My  man,  I'll  try." 

He  called  me  aside,  explained  to  me,  and  asked  my  advice 
and  consent,  as  Abel  Fletcher's  son,  to  a  plan  that  had  come 
into  his  mind.  It  was  to  write  orders,  which  each  man 
presenting  at  our  mill,  should  receive  a  certain  amount  of 
flour. 

"  Do  you  think  your  father  would  agree  ?" 

"  I  think  he  would." 

*'  Yes,"  John  added,  pondering — "  I  am  sute  he  would. 


106  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

And  besides,  if  he  does  not  give  some,  he  may  lose  all 
But  he  would  not  do  it  for  fear  of  that.  No,  he  is  a  just  man 
— I  am  not  afraid.     Give  me  some  paper,  Jael." 

He  sat  down  as  composedly  as  if  he  had  been  alone  in  the 
counting-house,  and  wrote.  I  looked  over  his  shoulder,  ad- 
miring his  clear,  firm  hand-writing  ;  the  precision,  concen- 
trativeness,  and  quickness,  with  which  he  first  seemed  to 
arrange,  and  then  execute  his  ideas.  He  possessed  to  the 
full,  that  "business"  faculty,  so  frequently  despised,  but 
Avhich.  out  of  very  ordinary  material,  often  makes  a  clever 
man  ;  and  without  which  the  cleverest  man  alive  can  never 
be  altogether  a  great  man. 

When  about  to  sign  the  orders,  John  suddenly  stopped. 
"No;  I  had  better  not." 

"  Why  so?" 

"  I  have  no  right ;  your  father  might  think  it  presump- 
tion." 

"  Presumption  ?  after  to-night !" 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing  !  Take  the  pen.  It  is  your  part  to 
sign  them,  Phineas." 

I  obeyed. 

"  Isn't  this  better  than  hanging  ? "  said  John,  to  the 
men,  when  he  had  distributed  the  little  bits  of  paper — 
precious  as  pound-notes — and  made  them  all  fully  under- 
stand the  same.  "  W^hy,  there  isn't  another  gentleman  in 
Norton  Bury,  who  if  you  had  come  to  burn  A?',s  house  down, 
would  not  have  had  the  constables  or  the  soldiers,  have 
shot  down  one-half  of  you  like  mad  dogs,  and  sent  the 
other  half  to  the  county  gaol.  Now,  for  all  your  misdoings, 
we  let  you  go  quietly  home,  well  fed,  and  with  food  for 
children,  too.      1)7/ //,  think  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Jacob  Baiues,  humbly. 

"  ril  tell  you.  Because  Abel  Fletcher  is  a  Quaker,  and 
a  Christian." 

"  Hurrah  for  Abel  Fletcher  !  hurrah  for  the  Quakers  ! " 
shouted  they,  waking  up  the  echoes  down  Norton  Bury 
streets  ;  which,  of  a  surety,  had  never  echoed  to  that  shout 
before.     And  so  the  riot  was  over. 

John  Halifax  closed  the  hall-door  and  came  in — unsteadily 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  10? 

— staggering.  Jael  placed  a  chair  for  him — worthy  soial ! 
she  was  wiping  her  old  eyes.  He  sat  down,  shivering, 
speechless.  I  put  my  hand  on  liis  shoulder ;  he  took  it, 
and  pressed  it  hard. 

"  Oh  I  Phineas,  lad,  I'm  glad  ;  glad  it's  safe  over/' 

"  Yes,  thank  God  !  " 

"  Ay,  indeed  ;  thank  God  !  " 

He  covered  his  eyes  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  rose  np 
pale,  but  quite  himself  again. 

"•  Now  let  us  go  and  fetch  your  father  honut." 

We  found  him  on  John's  bed,  still  asleep.  But  as  we 
entered  he  woke.  The  daylight  shone  on  his  face — it 
looked  ten  years  older  since  yesterday — he  stared,  bewil- 
dered and  angry,  at  John  Halifax. 

"  Eh,  young  man — oh  !  I  remember.  Where  is  my  son — 
where's  my  Phineas  ?  " 

I  fell  on  his  neck  as  if  I  had  been  a  child.  And  almost 
as  if  it  had  been  a  child's  feeble  head,  mechanically  he 
smoothed  and  patted  mine. 

"  Thee  art  not  hurt  ?     Xor  any  one  ?  " 

"No,''  John  answered  ;  "•  nor  is  either  the  house  or  the 
tan-yard  injured." 

He  looked  amazed.      "  How  has  that  been  ?  " 

"Phineas  will  tell  you.  Or.  stay — better  wait  till  you 
are  at  home." 

But  my  father  insisted  on  hearing.  1  told  the  whole, 
without  any  comments  on  John's  l^ehavior  ;  he  would  not 
have  liked  it  ;  and.  besides,  the  facts  spoke  for  themselves. 
I  told  the  simple,  plain  story — nothing  more. 

Abel  Fletcher  listened  at  first  in  silence.  As  I  proceeded, 
he  felt  about  for  his  hat,  put  it  on,  and  drew  its  broad  brim 
close  down  over  his  eyes.  Not  even  Avhen  I  told  him  of  the 
flour  v/e  had  promised  in  his  name,  the  giving  of  which 
would,  as  we  had  calculated,  cost  him  considerable  loss,  did 
he  utter  a  word  or  move  a  muscle. 

John,  at  length,  asked  him  if  he  were  satisfied. 

"  Quite  satisfied." 

But,  having  said  this,  he  sat  so  long,  his  hands  locked 
together  on  his  knees,  and  his  hat  drawn  down,  hiding  all 


108  JOHN    HALTPAX. 

the  face  except  the  rigid  month  and  chin — sat  so  long,  so 
motionless,  that  we  became  nneasy. 

John  spoke  to  him,  gently,  almost  as  a  son  wonld  have 
spoken. 

"  Are  you  very  lame  still  ?  Conld  I  help  you  to  walk 
home  ?  " 

My  father  looked  up,  and  slowly  held  out  his  hand. 

' '  Thee  hast  been  a  good  lad,  and  a  kind  lad  to  us  ;  I 
thank  thee.^^ 

There  was  no  answer,  none.  But  all  the  words  in  the 
world  could  not  match  that  happy  silence. 

By  degrees,  we  got  my  father  home.  It  was  just  such 
another  summer  morning  as  the  one,  two  years  back,  when 
we  too  had  stood,  exhausted  and  trembling,  before  thai, 
sternly-bolted  door.  We  both  thought  of  that  day  :  I  knew 
not  if  my  father  did  also. 

He  entered,  leaning  heavily  on  John.  He  sat  down  in 
the  very  seat,  in  the  very  room,  where  he  had  so  harshly 
judged  us — judged  him. 

Something,  perhaps,  of  that  bitterness  rankled  in  the 
young  man's  spirit  now,  for  he  stopped  on  the  threshold. 

"  Come  in,"  said  my  father,  looking  up. 

"  If  I  am  welcome  ;  not  otherwise." 

"Thee  art  welcome." 

He  came  in — I  drew  him  in — and  sat  down  with  us.  But 
his  manner  was  irresolute,  his  fingers  closed  and  unclosed 
nervously.  My  father,  too,  sat  leaning  his  head  on  his  two 
hands,  not  unmoved.  I  stole  up  to  him,  and  thanked  him 
softly  for  the  welcome  he  had  given. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  said  he,  with  some- 
thing of  his  old  hardness.  "  What  I  once  did,  was  only 
justice — or  I  then  believed  so.  AYhat  I  have  done,  and  am 
about  to  do,  is  still  mere  justice.  John,  how  old  art  thee 
now  ?  " 

"  Twenty." 

"  Then  for  one  year  from  this  time,  I  will  take  thee  as 
my  ""prentice,  though  thee  knowest  already  nearly  as  much 
of  the  business  as  I  do.  At  twenty-one  thee  will  be  able  to 
set  up  for  thyself,  or  I  may  take  thee  into  partnership— 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  109 

we'll  see.  But  '' — and  he  looked  at  me,  then  sternly, 
nay,  fiercely,  into  John's  steadfast  eyes — '•  remember,  thee 
hast  in  some  measure  taken  that  lad's  place.  May  God 
deal  with  thee  as  thou  dealest  with  my  son  Phineas — my 
only  son  ! " 

"  Amen  !  "  was  the  solemn  answer. 

And  God  who  sees  us  both  now — ay,  noto  !  and,  perhaps, 
not  so  far  apart  as  some  may  deem — He  knows  Avhether  or 
no  John  Halifax  kept  that  vow. 


110  JOHJSr    HALIFAX. 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

^*  Well  done,  Phineas — to  walk  round  tlie  garden  with- 
out once  resting  ! — now  I  call  that  grand,  after  an  individ- 
ual has  been  ill  a  month.  However,  you  must  calm  your 
superabundant  energies,  and  be  quiet." 

I  was  not  unwilling,  for  I  still  felt  very  weak.  But  sick- 
ness did  not  now  take  that  heavy,  overpowering  grip  of  me, 
mind  and  body,  that  it  once  used  to  do.  It  never  did 
when  John  was  by.  He  gave  me  strength,  mentally  and 
physically.  He  was  life  and  health  to  me,  with  his  brave 
cheerfulness — his  way  of  turning  all  minor  troubles  into 
pleasantries,  till  they  seemed  to  break  and  vanish  away, 
sparkling,  like  the  foam  on  the  top  of  the  wave.  Yet,  all 
the  while,  one  knew  well  that  he  could  meet  any  great  evil 
as  gallantly  as  a  good  ship  meets  a  heavy  sea — breasting  it, 
plunging  through  it,  or  riding  over  it,  as  only  a  good  ship 
can. 

When  I  recovered — just  a  month  after  the  bread-riot,  and 
that  month  was  a  great  triumph  to  John's  kind  care — I  felt 
that  if  I  always  had  him  beside  me,  I  should  never  be  ill 
any  more  ;  I  said  as  much  in  a  laughing  sort  of  way. 

"^Yery  well  ;  I  shall  keep  you  to  that  bargain.  ISiow,  sit 
down  ;  listen  to  the  newspajDer,  and  improve  your  mind  as 
to  what  the  world  is  doing.  It  ought  to  be  doing  some- 
thing, with  the  new  century  it  began  this  year.  Did  it  not 
seem  very  odd  at  first  to  have  to  write  '  1800  ?  '  " 

"'John,  what  a  capital  hand  you  write  now  ?" 

"  Do  I  ?  That's  somebody's  credit.  Do  you  remember 
my  first  lesson  on  the  top  of  the  Mythe  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  those  two  gentlemen  ?" 

*'  Oh  !  did  you  never  iiear  ?     Young  Mr.  Brithwood   is 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  Ill 

the  'squire  now.     He  married,  last  mouth,  Lady  Somebody 
Somethiug,  a  fine  lady  froui  abroad." 

"  Aud  Mr.  March — what  of  him  ?" 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  Come  now,  shall  I  read  the 
paper  ?  " 

He  read  well,  aud  I  liked  to  listen  to  him.  It  was,  I 
remember,  something  about  "  the  spacious  new  quadrangles, 
to  be  called  Russell  and  Tavistock  Squares,  with  elegantly 
laid-out  nursery-grounds  adjoining." 

"  It  must  be  a  fine  place,  Lontlon." 

''  Ay  ;  I  should  like  to  see  it.  Your  father  says,  perhaps 
he  shall  have  to  send  me,  this  winter,  on  business — won't 
that  be  fine  ?     If  only  you  would  go  too." 

I  shook  my  head.  I  had  the  strongest  disinclination  to 
stir  from  my  quiet  home,  which  now  held  vrithin  it.  or  about 
it,  all  I  wished  for  and  all  I  loved.  It  seemed  as  if  any 
change  must  be  to  something  Avorse. 

"  Nevertheless,  you  must  have  a  change.  Doctor  Jessop 
insists  upon  it.  Here  have  I  been  beating  up  and  down 
the  country  for  a  week  past — '  Adventures  in  Search  of  a 
Country  Residence  ' — and,  do  you  know,  I  think  I've  found 
one  at  last.     Shouldn't  you  like  to  hear  about  it  ?  " 

I  assented,  to  please  him. 

"  Such  a  nice,  nice  place,  on  the  slope  of  Enderley  Hill. 
A  cottage — Rose  Cottage — for  it's  all  in  a  bush  of  clnster- 
roses,  up  to  the  very  roof." 

'•  Where  is  Enderley  ?  " 

"  Did  you  never  hear  of  Enderley  Flat,  the  highest  table- 
land in  England  ?  Such  a  fresh,  free,  breezy  spot — how 
the  wind  sweeps  over  it  I     I  can  feel  it  in  my  face  still  !  " 

And  even  the  description  was  refreshing,  this  heavy, 
sultry  day,  with  not  a  breath  of  air  moving  across  the  level 
valley  in  which  Xorton  Bury  lay. 

"Shouldn't  you  like  to  live  on  a  hill-side,  to  be  at  the 
top  of  everything,  overlooking  everything  ?  Well,  that's 
Enderley  :  the  village  lies  just  under  the  brow  of  the 
Flat." 

' '  Is  there  a  village  ?  " 

'^  A  dozen  cottages  or  so,  at  each  door  of  which  half -a- 


112  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

dozen  white  little  heads,  and  a  dozen  round  eyes  ai)peared 
staring  at  me.  But  oh,  the  blessed  quiet  and  solitude  oi 
the  place  !  No  fights  in  filthy  alleys  !  no  tan-yards — I 
mean  " — he  added,  correcting  himself — "  that  it's  a  thorough 
country  spot  ;  and  I  like  the  country  better  than  the 
town." 

"  Do  you,  still  ?  Would  you  really  like  to  take  to  the 
*  shepherd's  life  and  state/  upon  which  my  namesake  here  is 
so  eloquent  ?     Let  us  see  Mdiat  he  says." 

And  from  the  handful  of  books  that  usually  lay  strewn 
about  wherever  we  tv/o  sat,  I  took  up  one  he  had  lately 
got,  with  no  small  pains,  I  was  sure,  and  had  had  bound  in 
its  own  proper  color,  and  presented  it  to  me — ■'  The  Purple 
Island,'  and  '  Sicelides,'  of  Phineas  Fletcher.  People  sel- 
dom read  this  wise,  tender,  and  sweet-voiced  old  fellow 
now  ;  so  I  will  even  copy  the  verses  I  found  for  John  to  read. 

"  Here  is  the  place.  Thyrsis  is  just  ending  his  'broken 
lay/ 

'  Lest  that  the  stealing  night  his  later  song  might  stay—'  " 

"  Stop  a  minute."  interrupted  John.  "  Apropos  of  '  steal- 
ing night/  the  sun  is  already  down  below  the  yew-hedge. 
Are  you  cold  ?  " 

''Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  Then  we'll  begin  : — 

"  '  Thrice,  oh,  thrice  happy,  shepherd's  life  and  state. 
When  courts  are  happiness,  unhappy  pawns  ! ' 

"  Tiiat's  not  clear,"  said  John,  laying  down  the  book. 
"  Now  I  do  like  poetry  to  be  intelligible.  A  poet  ought  to 
see  things  more  widel}^,  and  express  them  more  vividly, 
than  ordinary  folk." 

"  Don't  you  perceive — he  means  the  pawns  on  the  chess 
board — the  common  people." 

"  Phineas,  don't  say  the  common  people — I'm  a  common 
person  myself.     But  to  continue  : — 

"  '  His  cottage  low,  and  safely  humble  gate, 
Shuts  out  proud  Fortune,  with  her  scorns  and  fawns  : 

No  feared  treason  breaks  his  quiet  sleep. 

Singing  all  day,  his  flocl«  he  learns  to  keep, 
Himself  as  innocent  as  are  his  quiet  sheep.' 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  113 

("Not  many  sheep  at  I']nderley,  I  fancy  ;  the  flat  chiefly 
abounds  in  donkeys.     Well — ) 

"  '  No  Serian  worms  he  knows,  tliat  with  their  thread, 
Drew  out  their  silken  lives— nor  silken  pride—' 

"  Which  reminds  me  that — " 

"  David,  how  can  yon  make  me  laugh  at  my  reverend 
ancestor  in  this  way  ?     I'm  ashamed  of  you/' 

"  Only  let  me  tell  you  this  one  fact — very  interesting, 
you'll  allow — that  I  saw  a  silken  gown  hanging  uj)  in  the 
kitchen  at  Kose  Cottage.  Now,  though  Mrs.  Tod  is  a 
decent,  comely  woman,  I  don't  think  it  belonged  to  her." 

"  She  may  have  lodgers.'' 

"I  think  she  said  she  had — an  old  gentleman — but  he 
wouldn't  wear  a  silk  gown." 

"  His  wife  might.     Now  do  go  on  reading." 

*'  Certainly ;  I  only  wish  to  draw  a  parallel  between 
Thyrsis  and  ourselves,  in  our  futui-o  summer  life  at  Ender- 
ley.  So  the  old  gentleman's  wife  may  appropriate  the 
*  silken  pride/  while  we  emulate  the  shepherd. 

" '  His  lambs'  warm  fleece  well  fits  his  little  need — ' 

"1  wear  a  tolerably  good  coat,  now,  don't  I,  Phineas  ?" 

"  You  are  incorrigible. " 

Yet,  through  all  his  fun,  I  detected  a  certain  under-tone 
of  seriousness,  observable  in  him  ever  since  my  father's  dec- 
laration of  his  intentions  concerning  him,  had,  so  to  speak, 
settled  John's  future  career.  He  seemed  aware  of  some 
crisis  in  his  life,  arrived  or  impending,  which  disturbed 
the  generally  even  balance  of  his  temperament. 

"  Nay,  I'll  be  serious  ;"  and  passing  over  the  unfinished 
Terse,  with  another  or  two  following,  he  began  afresh  in  a 
new  place,  and  in  an  altogether  changed  tone. 

" '  His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him, 

Is  full  of  thousand  sweets  and  rich  content ; 

The  smooth-leaved  beeches  in  the  field  receive  him 

With  coolest  shades  till  noon-tide's  rage  is  spent ; 
His  life  is  neither  tost  on  boisterous  seas 
Of  troublous  worlds,  nor  lost  in  slothful  ease. 

Pleased  and  full  blest  he  lives,  when  he  his  God  can  please. 


114  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  '  His  bed  of  wool  yields  safe  and  quiet  sleeps. 

While  by  his  side  his  faithful  spouse  hath  place; 
His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 

The  lively  image  of  his  father's  face  ; 

Never  his  humble  house  or  state  torment  him, 
Less  he  could  like,  if  less  his  God  had  sent  him  ; 

And  when  he  dies,  green  turfs  with  grassy  tomb  content  him.'  " 

John  ceased.  He  was  a  good  reader — but  I  had  never 
heard  him  read  like  this  before.  Ending,  one  missed  it 
like  the  breaking-off  of  music,  or  like  the  inner  voice  of 
one's  own  heart  talking  when  nobody  is  by. 

"^  David,'"  I  said,  after  a  pause,  "  what  are  you  thinking 
about  ?  " 

He  started,  with  his  old,  quick  blush — "  Oh,  nothing — 
No,  that's  not  quite  true.  I  was  thinking  that,  so  far  as 
happiness  goes,  this  '  shepherd's  '  is  my  ideal  of  happy  life 
— ay,  down  to  the  '  grassy  tomb.'  " 

'^Your  fancy  leaps  at  once  to  the  grassy  tomb  ;  but  the 
shepherd  enjoyed  a  few  intermediate  stages  of  felicity  be- 
fore that." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  those  likewise." 

''Then,  you  do  intend  some  day  to  have  a  'faithful 
spouse  and  a  little  son  ? '  " 

*'  I  hope  so — God  willing." 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  this  was  the  first  time  our  con- 
versation had  ever  wandered  in  a  similar  direction.  Thousfh 
he  was  twenty,  and  I  twenty-two — to  us  both — and  I  thank 
Heaven,  that  we  both  could  look  up  in  the  face  of  Heaven 
and  say  so  !— to  us  both,  the  follies  and  wickednesses  of 
youth  were,  if  not  equally  unknown,  equally  and  alike  hate- 
ful. Many  may  doubt,  or  smile  at  the  fact  ;  but  I  state  it 
now,  in  my  old  age,  with  honor  and  pride,  that  we  two 
young  men  that  day  trembled  on  the  subject  of  love  as 
shyly,  as  reverently,  as  delicately,  as  any  two  young  maidens 
of  innocent  sixteen. 

After  John's  serious  "  God  willing,"  there  was  a  good 
long  silence.   .  Afterwards,  I  said — 

''  Then  you  purpose  to  marry  ?'' 

"  Certainly  !  as  soon  as  I  can." 

*'  Have  you  ever" — and,  while  speaking,  I  watched  him 
narrowly,  for  a  sudden  possibility  flashed  across  my  mind — 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  il5 

*'  Have  you   ever  seen  any  one  whom  you  would  like  for 
your  wife  ?  " 

'•-  No." 

I  was  satisfied.  John's  single  "  No  "  was  as  conclusive 
as  a  score  of  asseverations. 

We  said  no  more  ;  but  after  one  of  those  pauses  of  con- 
versation which  were  habitual  to  us — John  used  to  say,  that 
the  true  test  of  friendship  was  to  be  able  to  sit  or  walk  to- 
gether for  a  whole  hour,  in  perfect  silence,  without  weary- 
ing of  one  another's  company — we  again  began  talking  about 
Enderley. 

I  soon  found,  that  in  this  plan,  my  part  was  simply  acqui- 
escence ;  my  father  and  John  had  already  arranged  it  all. 
I  was  to  be  in  charge  of  the  latter  ;  nothing  could  induce 
Abel  Fletcher  to  leave,  even  for  a  day,  his  house,  his  gar- 
den, and  his  tan-yard.  We  two  young  men  were  to  set  up 
for  a  month  or  two  our  bachelor  establishment  at  ]\Irs.  Tod's. 
John  riding  thrice  a-week  over  to  Norton  Bury  to  bring 
news  of  me,  and  to  fulfil  his  duties  at  the  tan-yard.  One 
could  see  plain  enough — and  very  grateful  to  me  was  the 
sight — tha{  whether  or  no  Abel  Fletcher  acknowledged  it, 
his  right  hand  in  all  his  business  affairs  was  the  lad  John 
Halifax. 

On  a  lovely  August  day,  we  started  for  Enderley.  It  was 
about  eight  miles  off,  on  a  hilly,  cross-country  road.  We 
lumbered  slowly  along  in  our  post-chaise  ;  I  leaning  back 
enjoying  the  fresh  air,  the  changing  views,  and  chiefly  to 
see  how  intensely  John  enjoyed  them  too. 

He  looked  extremely  well  to-day — handsome,  I  was  about 
to  write  ;  but  John  was  never,  even  in  his  youth.  "  hand- 
some." Nay,  I  have  heard  people  call  him  "'plain  ;"  but 
that  was  not  true.  His  face  had  that  charm,  perhaps  the 
greatest,  certainly  the  most  lasting,  either  in  women  or  men 
" — of  infinite  variety.  You  were  always  finding  out  some- 
thing— an  expression  strange  as  tender,  or  the  track  of  a 
swift,  brilliant  thought,  or  an  indication  of  feeling  different 
from,  perhaps  deeper  than,  anything  which  appeared  be- 
fore. When  you  believed  you  had  learnt  it  line  by  line,  it 
would  startle  you  by  a  phase  quite  new,   and  beautiful  as 


b 


116  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

new.  For  it  was  not  one  of  your  impassive  faces,  whose 
owners  count  it  pride  to  harden  into  a  mass  of  stone  those 
lineaments  which  nature  made  as  the  flesh  and  blood  repre- 
sentation of  the  man's  soul.  True,  it  had  its  reticences,  its 
sacred  disguises,  its  noble  powers  of  silence  and  self-con- 
trol. It  was  a  fair-written,  open  book  :  onty,  to  read  it 
clearly,  you  must  come  from  its  own  country,  and  under- 
stand the  same  language. 

For  the  rest,  John  was  decidedly  like  the  "  David  ^' 
whose  name  I  still  gave  him  now  and  then — ''  a  goodly  per- 
son ;"  tall,  well-built,  and  strong.  ''  The  glory  of  a  young 
man  is  his  strength  ; "  and  so  I  used  often  to  think,  when  I 
looked  at  him.  He  always  dressed  with  extreme  simplic- 
ity ;  generally  in  gray,  he  was  fond  of  gray  ;  and  in  some- 
thing of  our  Quaker  fashion.  On  this  day,  I  remember,  I 
noticed  an  especial  carefulness  of  attire,  at  his  age  neither 
unnatural  nor  unbecoming.  His  well-fitting  coat  and  long- 
flapped  vest,  garnished  with  the  snowiest  of  lawn  frills  and 
ruffles  ;  his  knee-breeches,  black  silk  hose,  and  shoes  adorned 
with  the  largest  and  brightest  of  steel  buckles,  made  up  a 
costume,  which,  quaint  as  it  Avould  now  apjDear,  still  is,  to 
my  mind,  the  most  suitable  and  graceful  that  a  young  man 
can  wear.  I  never  see  any  young  men  now  who  come  at 
all  near  the  picture  which  still  remains  in  my  mind's  eye 
of  John  Halifax  as  he  looked  that  day. 

Once,  with  the  natural  sensitiveness  of  youth,  especially 
of  youth  that  has  struggled  uj)  through  so  many  opposing 
circumstances  as  his  had  done,  he  noticed  my  glance. 

^'Anything  amiss  about  me,  Phineas  ?  You  see  I  am 
not  much  used  to  holidays  and  holiday  clothes." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  against  either  you  or  your 
clothes,"  replied  I,  smiling. 

"  That's  all  right ;  I  beg  to  state,  it  is  entirely  in  honor 
of  you  and  of  Enderley  that  I  have  slip23ed  off  my  tan-yard 
husk,  and  put  on  the  gentleman." 

"  You  couldn't  do  that,  John.  You  couldn't  put  on 
what  you  were  born  with." 

We  laughed — but  I  think  he  was  pleased. 

He  had  now   come  into  a  hilly  region.     John  leaped  out 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  117 

and  gained  the  t(ip  of  the  steep  road  long  before  the  post- 
chaise  did,  1  watched  him  standing,  balancing  in  his 
hands  the  riding-whip  which  had  replaced  the  everlasting 
rose-switch,  or  willow-wand,  of  his  boyhood.  His  figure 
was  outlined  sharply  against  the  sky,  his  head  thrown  hack- 
ward  a  little,  as  he  gazed,  evidently  Avith  the  keenest  zest, 
on  the  breezy  fiat  before  him.  His  hair — a  little  darker 
than  it  used  to  be,  but  of  tlie  true  Saxon  color  still,  and 
curly  as  ever — was  blown  aljout  l)y  the  wind,  under  his 
broad  hat.  His  whole  ajjpearance  was  full  of  life,  health, 
energy,  and  enjoyment. 

I  thought  any  father  might  have  been  proud  of  such  a 
son,  any  sister  of  such  a  brother,  any  young  girl  of  such  a 
lover.  Ay,  that  last  tie,  the  oidy  one  of  the  three  that  was 
possible  to  him — I  wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before 
times  changed,  and  I  ceased  to  be  the  only  one  who  was 
proud  of  him. 

We  drove  on  a  little  further,  and  came  to  the  chief  land- 
mark of  the  high  moorland — a  quaint  hostelry,  called  the 
'•'  Bear."  Bruin  swung  aloft,  pole  in  hand,  brown  and 
fierce,  on  an  old-fashioned  sign,  as  he  and  his  progenitors 
had  probably  swung  for  two  centuries  or  more. 

"  Is  this  Enderley  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  quite,  but  near  it.  You  never  saw  the  sea  ?  Well, 
from  this  point  I  can  show  yon  something  very  like  it.  Do 
you  see  that  gleaming  bit  in  the  landscape  fur  away  ? 
That's  water — that's  our  very  ow^n  Severn,  swelled  to  an 
estuary.  But  yon  must  imagine  the  estuary — you  can  only 
get  that  tiny  peep  of  water,  glittering  like  a  great  diamond 
that  some  young  Titaness  has  flung  out  of  her  necklace, 
down  among  the  hills." 

"  David  you  are  actually  growing  poetical.  " 

"  Am  I  ?  Well,  I  do  feel  rather  strange  to-day— crazy 
like  ;  a.  high  wind  always  sends  me  half  crazy  with  de- 
light. Did  you  ever  feel  such  a  breeze  !  And  there's  some- 
thing so  gloriously  free  in  this  high  level  common — as  flat 
as  if  my  Titaness  had  found  a  little  Mont  Blanc,  and  amused 
herself  with  patting  it  down  like  a  dough-cake. " 

"  A  very  culinary  goddess." 


118  JOHK    HALIFAX. 

"  Yes  !  but  a  goddess  after  all.  And  her  dongh-cake, 
her  mushroom,  her  flattened  Mont  Blanc,  is  very  fine. 
What  a  broad  green  sweep — nothing  but  sky  and  common, 
common  and  sky.  This  is  Enderley  Flat.  We  shall  come  to 
its  edge  soon,  where  it  drops  abruptly  into  such  a  pretty 
valley.  There,  look  down — that's  the  church.  AVe  are  on 
a  level  with  the  top  of  its  tower.  Take  care,  my  lad," — to 
the  post-boy,  who  was  crossing  with  dilftculty  the  literally 
"  pathless  waste," — "  Don't  lurch  us  into  the  quarry-pits, 
or  topple  us  at  once  doAvn  the  slope,  where  we  shall  roll  over 
and  over — -facilis  descensus  Averni — and  lodge  in  Mrs. 
Tod's  garden  hedge." 

"  Mrs.  Tod  would  feel  flattered  if  she  knew  Latin.  You 
don't  look  upon  our  future  habitation  as  a  sort  of  Avernus?" 

John  laughed  merrily.  "  No,  as  I  told  you  before,  I 
like  Enderley  Hill.  I  can't  tell  why,  but  I  like  it.  It 
seems  as  if  I  had  known  the  place  before.  I  feel  as  if  we 
were  going  to  have  great  happiness  here." 

And  as  he  spoke,  his  unwonted  buoyancy  softened  into 
a  quietness  of  manner,  more  befitting  that  word  "  happi- 
ness." Strange  word  !  hardly  in  my  vocabulary.  Yet, 
when  he  uttered  it,  I  seemed  to  understand  it  and  to  be 
content. 

We  wound  a  little  way  down  the  slope,  and  came  in 
front  of  Rose  Cottage.  It  was  well  named.  I  never  iu 
my  life  had  seen  such  a  bush  of  bloom.  They  hung  in 
clusters — those  roses — a  dozen  in  a  group  ;  pressing  their 
pinky  cheeks  together  in  a  mass  of  family  fragrance,  push- 
ing in  at  the  parlor  window,  climbing  up  even  to  the  very 
attic.  There  was  a  yelloAV  jasmine  over  the  porch  at  one 
front  door,  and  a  woodbine  at  the  other ;  the  cottage  had 
two  entrances,  each  distinct.  But  the  general  impression 
it  gave,  both  as  to  sight  and  scent,  v/as  of  -roses — nothing 
but  roses. 

"  How  are  you,  Mrs.  Tod  ? "  as  a  comely,  middle-aged 
body  appeared  at  the  right  hand  doorway,  dressed  sprucely 
in  one  of  those  things  Jael  called  a  "  coat  and  jacket," 
likewise  a  red  calamanco  petticoat  tucked  up  at  the  pocket- 
holes. 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  119 

"  I  be  pretty  fair,  sir — -be  you  the  samo  ?  The  oliihlren 
ha'  not  forgotten  you — you  see,  Mr.  Halifax." 

"  So  much  the  better  ! "  and  he  patted  two  or  three  little 
white  heads,  and  tossed  the  youngest  high  up  in  the  air. 
It  looked  very  strange  to  see  John  with  a  child  in  his 
arms. 

"  Don't  'ee  make  more  noise  than  'ee  can  help,  my  lad," 
the  good  woman  said  to  our  post-boy,  "  because,  sir,  the 
sick  gentleman  bean't  so  well  again  to-day." 

"I  am  sorry  for  it.  We  Avould  not  have  driven  up 'to 
the  door,  had  we  known.     Which  is  his  room  ?  " 

Mrs.  Tod  pointed  to  a  window — not  on  our  side  of  the 
house,  but  the  other.  A  hand  was  just  closing  the  case- 
ment and  pulling  down  the  blind — a  hand  which,  in  the 
momentary  glimpse  we  had  of  it,  seemed  less  like  a  man's 
than  a  woman's. 

AVhen  we  were  settled  in  the  parlor,  John  noticed  this 
fact. 

"  It  was  the  wife,  most  likely.  Poor  thing  !  how  hard 
to  be  shut  up  in-doors  on  such  a  summer  evening  as  this  ! " 

It  did  seem  a  sad  sight — that  closed  window,  outside 
which  was  the  fresh,  balmy  air,  the  sunset,  and  the  roses. 

''And  how  do  you  like  Enderley  ?"  asked  John,  when 
tea  being  over,  I  lay  and  rested,  where  he  sat  leaning  his 
elbow  on  the  window-sill,  and  his  cheek  against  a  bunch  of 
those  ever-intruding,  inquisitive  roses. 

"  It  is  very,  very  pretty,  and  so  comfortable — almost  like 
home." 

"  I  feel  as  if  it  were  home,"  John  said  half  to  himself. 
"  Do  you  know,  I  can  hardly  believe  that  I  have  only  seen 
this  place  once  before  ;  it  is  so  familiar.  I  seem  to  know 
quite  ^vell  that  slope  of  common  before  the  door,  with  its 
black  dots  of  furze-bushes.  And  that  wood  below  ;  what 
a  clear  line  its  top  makes  against  the  yellow  sky  !  There, 
that  high  ground  to  the  right  ;  it's  all  dusky  now,  but  it  is 
such  a  view  Ijy  daylight.  And  between  it  and  Enderley  is 
the  prettiest  valley,  where  the  road  slopes  down  just  under 
those  chestnut-trees." 

"How  well  you  seem  to  know  the  place  already." 


120  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"As  I  tell  you,  I  like  it.  I  hardly  ever  felt  so  content 
before.     We  will  have  a  happy  time,  Phineas." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  liow — even  if  I  had  felt  differently — 
could  I  say  anything  but  "  yes  "  to  him  then  ? 

I  lay  until  it  grew  quite  dark,  and  I  could  only  see  a  dim 
shape  sitting  at  the  window,  instead  of  John's  known  face, 
then  I  bade  him  good-night,  and  retired.  Directly  after- 
wards, I  heard  him,  as  I  knew  he  would,  dash  out  of  the 
house,  and  away  up  the  Flat.  In  the  deep  quiet  of  this 
lonely  spot  I  could  distinguish,  for  several  minutes,  the  di- 
minishing sound  of  his  footsteps  along  the  loose,  stony 
road,  and  the  notes,  clear  and  shrill,  of  his  whistling.  I 
think  it  was  "  Sally  in  our  Alley,"  or  some  such  pleasant 
old  tune.  At  last  it  faded  far  off,  and  I  fell  into  sleep  and 
dreams. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

''  That  Mrs.  Tod  is  an  extniordinary  woman.  I  repeat 
it — a  most  extraordinary  woman." 

And  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table,  from  which  the 
said  extraordinary  woman  had  just  removed  breakfast, 
John  looked  over  to  me  with  his  own  merry  brown  eyes. 

"Wherefore,  David  ?" 

"  She  has  a  house  full  of  children,  yet  manages  to  keep 
it  ([uiet — and  her  own  temper  likewise.  Astonishing  pa- 
tience !  However  people  attain  it  who  have  to  do  with 
brats,  /can't  imagine." 

"John  !  that's  mean  hypocrisy.  I  saw  you  myself,  half- 
an-hour  ago,  holding  the  eldest  Tod  boy  on  a  refractory 
donkey,  and  laughing  till  you  could  hardly  stand." 

"  Did  I  ?  "  said  he,  half-ashamed.  "Well,  it  was  only 
to  keep  the  little  scamp  from  making  a  noise  under  the 
windows.  And  that  reminds  me  of  another  remarkable 
virtue  in  Mrs.  Tod — she  can  liold  her  tongue." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"  In  two  whole  daj^s  che  has  not  communicated  to  us  a 
single  fact  concerning  our  neighbors  on  the  other  half  of 
Rose  Cottage." 

"  Did  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

John  laughingly  denied  ;  then  allowed  that  he  always 
had  a  certain  pleasure  in  eliciting  information  on  men  and 
things. 

"  The  wife  being  indicated,  I  suppose,  by  that  very  com- 
plimentaty  word  'thing.'  But  what  possible  interest  can 
yon  have  in  either  the  old  gentleman  or  the  old  lady  ?  " 

"  Stop,  Phineas  :  you  have  a  bad  habit  of  jumping  at 
conclusions.  And  in  our  great  dearth  of  occupation  here. 
I  think  it  might  be  all  the  better  for  you  to  take  a  little  in- 

121 


132       ■  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

terest  in  your  neighbors.  So  I've  a  great  mind  to  indulge 
you  with  an  important  idea,  suggestion,  discovery.  Har- 
kee,  friend  ! " — and  he  put  on  an  air  of  sentimental  mystery, 
not  a  bad  copy  of  our  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Charles — ■ 
^'What  if  the — the  mdividual  should  not  be  an  old  lady 
.It  all  ?  " 

"  What !     The  old  gentleman's  wife  ! " 

"  Wife  ? — ahem  !  more  jumping  at  conclusions.  No-;  let 
us  keep  on  the  safe  side,  and  call  her  the — individual.  In 
short,  the  owner  of  that  grey  silk  gown  I  saw  hanging  up 
in  the  kitchen.     I've  seen  it  again." 

"The  grey  gown  !  when  and  where  ?" 

"  This  morning,  early.  I  walked  after  it  across  the  Flat, 
a  good  way  behind,  though  ;  for  I  thought  that  it — well, 
let  me  say  slie — might  not  like  to  be  watched  or  followed. 
She  was  trotting  along  very  fast,  and  she  carried  a  little 
basket — I  fancy  a  basket  of  eggs." 

"'  Capital  housekeeper  !   excellent  wife  V 

"  Once  more — I  have  my  doubts  on  that  latter  fact.  She 
walked  a  great  deal  quicker  and  merrier  than  any  wife 
ought  to  walk  when  her  husband  is  ill." 

I  could  not  help  laughing  at  John's  original  notions  of 
conjugal  duty. 

"  Besides,  Mrs.  Tod  always  calls  her  invalid  ''  the  old  gen- 
tleman !'  and  I  don't  believe  this  was  an  elderly  lady." 

"  Nay,  old  men  do  sometimes  marry  young  women." 

'^  Yes,  but  it  is  always  a  pity  ;  and  sometimes  not  quite 
right.  No," — and  I  was  amused  to  see  how  gravely  and 
doggedly  John  kept  to  his  point. — "Though  this  lady  did 
not  look  like  a  sylph  or  a  wood-nymph— being  neither  very  ■ 
small  nor  very  slight,  and  having  a  comfortable  woollen 
cloak  and  hood  over  the  grey  silk  gown— still,  I  don't  believe 
she's  an  old  Avoman,  or  married  either." 

"  How  can  you  possibly  tell  ?     Did  you  see  her  face  ?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  answered,  rather  indignantly.  "  I 
should  not  think  it  manly  to  chase  a  lady  as  a  schoolboy 
does  a  butterfly,  for  the  mere  gratification  of  staring  at  her. 
I  stayed  on  the  top  of  the  Flat  till  she  had  gone  indoors." 

"  into  Rose  Cottage  ?  " 


JOHJSr   HALIFAX.  I::i3 


» 


*'  Why— yes. 

"  JSlie  had,  doubtless,  gone  to  fetch  new-laid  eggs  for  her 
—I  mean  for  the  sick  gentleman's  breakfast.     Kind  soul  I " 

"  You  may  jest,  Phineas,  but  I  think  she  is  a  kind  soul. 
On  her  way  home  I  saw  her  stop  twice  ;  once  to  speak  to 
an  old  woman  who  was  gathering  sticks  ;  and  again,  to  scold 
a  lad  for  thrashing  a  donkey. ^ 

"  Did  you  hear  her  ?"        ■ 

"  JSTo  ;  but  I  judge  from  the  lad's  penitent  face  as  I  passed 
him.     I  am  sure  she  had  been  scolding  him." 

"  Then  she's  not  young,  (le])pnd  upon  it.  Your  beauti- 
ful young  creatures  never  scold." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  John,  meditatively. 
"For  my  part,  T  should  rather  not  cheat  myself,  or  be 
cheated  after  that  manner.  Perfection  is  impossible. 
Better  see  the  young  woman  as  she  really  is,  bad  and  good 
together." 

"The  young  woman  !     The  fair  divinity,  you  mean  ! '' 

"No  ;  "  shutting  his  mouth  over  the  negative  in  his  firm 
way — "  I  strongly  object  to  divinities.  Tlow  unpleasant  it 
would  be  to  woo  an  angel  of  perfection,  ami  find  her  out  at 
last  to  be  only — only  Mrs. — " 

^'Halifax/'  suggested  I;  at  which  he  laughed,  slightly 
coloring. 

"  But  how  woful  must  be  our  dearth  of  subjects,  when 
we  talk  such  nonsense  as  this  I     What  suo-orested  it  ?" 

"'Your  friend  in  the  grey  gown,  I  suppose." 

" Requiescat  in  pace!  May  she  enjoy  her  eggs!  And 
now  I  must  go  saddle  the  brown  mare,  and  be  off  to  Nor- 
ton Bury.  A  lovely  day  for  a  ride.  How  I  shall  dash 
along  ?  " 

He  rose  up  cheerily.  It  was  like  morning  sunshine  only  to 
see  his  face.  No  morbid  follies  had  ever  tainted  his  healthy 
nature,  whatsoever  romance  was  there — and  never  was 
there  a  thoroughly  noble  nature  without  some  romance  in 
it.  But  it  lay  deep  down,  calm  and  unawakened.  His 
heart  was  as  light  and  free  as  air. 

Stooping  over  my  easy  chair,  he  wheeled  it  to  the  win- 
dow, in  sight  of  the  pleasant  view. 


124  JOHK    HALIFAX. 

"Now,  Phineas,  wliat  more  books  do  you  want  ?  You'll 
take  a  walk  before  dinner  ?     You^ll  not  be  moping  ?  " 

No  ;  why  should  I,  who  knew  I  had  always,  whether  ab- 
sent or  present,  the  blessing,  the  infinite  blessing,  of  being 
first  in  his  thoughts  and  cares  ?  AVho,  whether  he  ex- 
pressed it  or  not — the  best  things  never  are  expressed,  or 
expressible — knew  by  a  thousand  little  daily  acts  like  these, 
the  depth  and  tenderness  of  his  friendship,  his  brotherly 
love  for  me.  As  yet,  I  had  it  all.  And  God,  who  knows 
how  little  else  I  had,  will  j^ardon  if  i]i  my  unspeakable 
thankfulness  lurked  a  taint  of  selfish  joy  in  my  sole  posses- 
sion of  such  a  priceless  boon. 

He  lingered  about,  making  me  ''^all  right,"  as  he  called 
it,  and  planning  out  my  solitary  day.  With  much  merri- 
ment, too,  for  we  were  the  gayest  couple  of  young  bache- 
lors, when,  as  John  said,  "  the  duties  of  our  responsible 
position  "  would  allow. 

"  Eesponsible  position  !  It's  our  good  landlady  who 
ought  to  talk  about  that.  With  two  sets  of  lodgers,  a  hus- 
band, and  an  indefinite  number  of  children. — There's  one 
of  them  got  into  mischief  at  last.     Hark  I " 

"  It's  Jack,  my  namesake.  Bless  my  life!  I  knew  he 
would  come  to  grief  with  that  donkey. — Hey,  lad  !  never 
mind,  get  up  again." 

But  soon  he  perceived  that  the  accident  was  more  serious  ; 
and  disappeared  like  a  shot,  leaping  out  through  the  open 
window.  The  next  minute  I  saw  him  carrying  in  the  un- 
lucky Jack,  who  was  bleeding  from  a  cut  on  the  forehead, 
and  screaming  vociferously. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Mrs.  Tod  ;  it  is  very  slight — I  saw 
it  done.  Jack,  my  lad  ! — be  a  man,  and  never  mind  it. 
Don't  scream  so  ;  you  alarm  your  mother." 

But  as  soon  as  the  good  woman  was  satisfied  that  there 
was  no  real  cause  for  terror,  hers  changed  into  hearty  wrath 
against  Jack  for  his  carelessness,  and  for  giving  so  much 
trouble  to  the  gentleman. 

"-  But  he  be  always  getting  into  mischief,  sir — that  boy. 
Three  months  back,  the  very  day  Mr.  March  came,  he  got 
playing  with  the  carriage-horse,  and  it  kicked  him  and  broke 


JOHN    PTALIFAX.  125 

his  arm.  A  deal  he  cares  :  he  he  just  as  sprack  as  ever. 
As  I  say  to  Tod — it  bean't  no  use  fretting  over  that  boy." 

"Have  patience,"  answered  John,  who  had  again  carried 
the  unfortunate  young  scapegrace  from  our  jmrlor  into  Mrs. 
Tod's  kitchen — the  centre  room  of  the  cottage  ;  and  was 
trying  to  divert  the  torrent  of  maternal  indignation,  while 
he  helped  her  to  plaster  up  the  still  ugly-looking  wound. 
"  Come,  forgive  the  lad.  He  will  be  more  sorry  after- 
wards, than  if  you  had  punished  him." 

"  Do'ee  think  so  ?  "  said  the  woman,  as,. struck  either  by 
the  words,  the  manner,  or  the  tone,  she  looked  uj)  straight 
at  him.     ''  Do'ee  really  think  so,  Mr.  Halifax  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Nothing  makes  one  so  good  as  being 
forgiven  wlien  one  has  been  naughty.  Isn't  it  so.  Jack, 
my  namesake  ?  " 

"Jack  ought  to  be  proud  o'  tliat,  sir,"  said  the  motlier, 
respectfully  ;  '' and  there's  some  sense  in  what  you  say,  too. 
You  talk  like  my  man  does,  o'  Su  inlays.  Tod  be  a  Scotch- 
man, Mr.  Halifax  ;  and  they're  good  folks,  tlie  Scotch,  and 
read  their  Bibles  hard.  There's  a  deal  about  forgiving  in 
the  Bible  ;  isn't  there,  sir  ?" 

•'Exactly,"  John  answered,  smiling.  "And  so.  Jack, 
you're  safe  this  time  ;  only  you  must  not  disobey  your 
mother  again,  for  the  sake  of  donkeys  or  anything  else." 

"  ]SJ"o,  sir — thank'oe,  sir,"  sobbed  Jack,  humbly.  "You 
be  a  gentleman — 31r.  March  bean't — he  said  it  served  me 
right  for  getting  under  his  horses." 

"Hold  thy  tongue!"  said  Jack's  mother,  sharply;  for 
the  latch  of  the  opposite  door  was  just  then  lifted,  and  a 
lady  stood  there. 

"  Mrs.  Tod,  my  father  says — " 

Seeing  strangers,  the  lady  paused.  At  the  sound  of  her 
voice — a  pleasant  voice,  though  somewhat  quick  and  de- 
cided in  tone — John  and  I  both  involuntarily  turned.  \Ye 
felt  awkward  !  doubtful  whether  to  stay,  or  retire  abruptly. 
She  saved  us  the  choice. 

"  Mrs.  Tod,  my  father  will  take  his  soup  at  eleven.  Y'ou 
will  remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  March." 


126  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Upon "  which.  Miss  March  shut  the  door  at  once,  and 
vanished. 

She  wore  a  grey  silken  gown.  I  glanced  at  John,  but 
he  did  not  see  me  ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door,  which 
had  disclosed  and  concealed  the  momentary  picture.  Its 
momentariness  impressed  it  the  more  vividly  on  my  memory 
■ — I  have  it  there  still. 

A  girl,  in  early  hut  not  precocious  maturity,  rather  tall, 
of  a  figure  built  more  for  activity  and  energy  than  the 
mere  fragility  of  sylph-like  grace :  dark-complexioned, 
dark-eyed,  dark-haired — the  whole  coloring  being  of  that 
soft  darkness  of  tone  which  gives  a  sense  of  something  at 
once  warm  and  tender,  strong  and  womanly.  Thorough  wo- 
man she  seemed — not  a  bit  of  the  angel  about  her.  Scarcely 
beautiful;  and  "pretty"  Avould  have  been  the  very  last 
word  to  have  applied  to  her  ;  but  there  was  around  her  an 
atmosphere  of  freshness,  health,  and  youth,  jileasant  as  a 
breeze  in  spring. 

For  her  attire,  it  was  that  notable  grey  silk  gown — very 
simply  made,  with  no  fripperies  or  fandangoes  of  any  sort 
- — reaching  up  to  her  throat  and  down  to  her  wrists,  where 
it  had  some  kind  of  trimming  of  white  fur,  which  made  the 
skin  beneath  show  exquisitely  delicate. 

'■^That  is  Miss  March/'  said  our  landlady,  when  she  had 
disappeared. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  John,  removing  his  eyes  from  the  shut 
door. 

"  She  be  very  sensible-like,  for  a  young  body  of  seven- 
teen :  more  sensible  and  pleasanter  than  her  father,  who  is 
always  ailing,  and  always  grumbling.  Poor  gentleman  ! — 
most  like  he  can't  help  it.  But  it  be  terrible  hard  for  the 
daughter — bcan't  it,  sir  ?  " 

"  Very,"  said  John.     His  laconism  was  extraordinary: 

Still,  he  kept  standing  by  the  kitchen-table,  waiting  ti/. 
the  last  bandage  had  been  sewn  on  Jack's  cut  forehead,  and 
even  some  minutes  after  his  protege  had  begun  playing 
about  as  usual.  It  was  I  who  had  to  suggest  that  we 
shoiild  not  intrude  in  Mrs.  Tod's  kitchen  any  longer. 

*'  No — certainly   not.      Come,    Phineas.      Mrs.   Tod,    I 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  12? 

hope    our   presence   did   not   inconvenience  —  the   yoirng 
lady  ?  " 

"  Bless  your  heart,  sir  !  nothing  ever  inconveniences  she. 
There  bean't  a  pleasanter  young  body  alive.  She'll  often 
come  into  this  kitchen — Just  as  you  did.  gentlemen,  and 
very  happy  to  see  you  always,"  added  Mrs.  Tod,  curtsey- 
ing. "  When  Mr.  March  is  asleep,  she'll  come  and  sit  for 
half  an  hour,  talking  to  Tod  and  me,  and  playing  with  the 
baby—" 

Here,  probably  at  sound  of  its  name,  the  individual  al- 
luded to  set  up,  from  its  cradle  intlic  corner,  such  a  terrific 
squall,  that  we  young  men  beat  a  precipitate  retreat. 

"  So,  John,  your  grey  gown  is  discovered  at  last.  She's 
young,  certainly — but  not  exactly  a  beauty." 

"  I  never  said  she  was." 

"  A  pleasant  person,  though  ;  hearty,  cheerful-looking, 
and  strong.  lean  easily  imagine  her  trotting  over  the  com- 
mon with  her  basket  of  eggs — chatting  to  the  old  woman, 
and  scolding  the  naughty  boy." 

"  Don't  make  fun  of  her.  She  must  have  a  hard  life 
with  her  old  father." 

Of  course,  seeing  him  take  it  up  so  seriously,  I  jested  no 
more. 

"  By-the-bye,  did  not  the  father's  name  strike  you  ? 
March — suppose  it  should  turn  out  to  be  the  ver}''  Mr. 
March  you  pulled  out  of  Severn  five  years  ago.  What 
a  romantic  conjuncture  of  circumstances  ! " 

"Nonsense,"  said  John,  quickly — more  quickly  than  he 
usually  spoke  to  me  ;  then  came  back  to  wish  me  a  kind 
good-bye.  "■  Take  care  of  yourself,  old  fellow.  It  will  1)e 
nightfall  before  I  am  back  from  Norton  Bury." 

I  watched  him  mount,  and  ride  slowly  down  the  bit  of 
common— turning  once  to  look  back  at  Rose  Cottage,  ere 
he  finally  disappeared  between  the  chestnut  trees  :  a  goodly 
sight — for  he  v;as  an  admirable  horseman. 

When  he  was  gone,  I,  glancing  lazily  up  at  Mr.  March's 
window,  saw  a  hand,  and,  I  fancied,  a  v/hite-furred  wrist, 
pulling  down  the  blind.  It  amused  me,  to  think  Miss 
March  might  possibly  have  been  watching  him  likewise. 


128  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

I  sjient  the  whole  long  day  alone  in  the  cottage  parlor, 
chiefly  meditating  ;  though  more  than  once  friendly  Mrs. 
Tod  broke  in  upon  my  solitude.  She  treated  me  in  a 
motherly,  free-and-easy  way  :  not  half  so  deferentially  as 
she  treated  John  Halifax. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  over  Nunnely  Hill,  behind  the 
four  tall  Italian  poplars,  which  stood  on  the  border  of  our 
bit  of  wilderness — three  together,  and  one  ajiart.  They 
were  our  landmarks — and  skymarks  too — for  the  first  sun- 
beam coming  across  the  common  struck  their  tops  of  a 
morning,  and  the  broad  western  glimmer  showed  their 
forms  distinctly  until  far  in  the  night.  They  were  just 
near  enough  for  me  to  hear  their  faint  rustling  in  windy 
weather  ;  on  calm  days  they  stood  up  straight  against  the 
sky,  like  memorial  columns.  They  were  friends  of  mine — 
those  four  poplars  ;  sometimes  they  almost  seemed  alive. 
We  made  acquaintance  on  this  first  night,  when  I  sat 
watching  for  John  ;  and  we  kept  up  the  friendship  ever 
afterwards. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  I  heard  the  old  mare's  hoofs 
clattering  up  the  road  :  joyfully  I  ran  out. 

David  was  not  quite  his  youthful,  gay  self  that  night  ; 
not  quite,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  the  David  of  the  sheep- 
folds."  He  was  very  tired,  and  had  what  he  called  the 
"  tan-yard  feeling,"  the  opju'ession  of  business  cares. 

"Times  are  hard,"  said  he,  when  we  had  finally  shut 
out  the  starlight,  and  Mrs.  Tod  had  lit  candles,  bade  us 
good-night  in  her  free,  independent  w^ay,  and  "  hoped  Mr. 
Halifax  had  everything  he  wanted."  She  always  seemed 
to  consider  him  the  head  of  our  little  menage. 

"  The  times  are  very  hard,"  repeated  John,  thought- 
fully. "  I  don't  see  how  your  father  can  rightly  be  left 
with  so  many  anxieties  on  his  shoulders.  I  must  manage 
to  get  to  Norton  Bury  at  least  five  days  a  week.  You  will 
have  enough  of  solitude,  I  fear." 

"  And  you  wall  have  little  enough  of  the  pleasant  country 
life  you  planned,  and  which  you  seem  so  to  delight  in." 

"  Never  mind — perhaps  it's  good  for  me.  I  have  a  life 
of  hard  work  before  me,  and  can't  afford  to  get  used  to 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  129 

too  much  pleasure.     But  we'll  make  the  most  of  every  bit 
of  time  we  have.     How  have  you  felt  to-day  ?     Strong  ?  " 

"Very  strong.  Now,  what  would  you  like  us  to  do  to- 
morrov/  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  show  you  the  common  in  early  morning — the 
view  there  is  so  lovely." 

"  Of  nature,  or  human  nature  ?" 

He  half-smiled,  though  only  at  my  mischievousness.  I 
could  see  it  did  not  aft'ect  him  in  the  least.  ''  ^^.y,  I  know 
ivhat  you  mean  ;  but  I  had  forgotten  her,  or,  if  not  abso 
lutely  forgotten,  she  Avas  not  in  my  mind  just  then.  We 
will  go  another  way,  as  indeed  I  had  intended  :  it  might 
annoy  the  young  lady,  our  meeting  her  again." 

His  grave,  easy  manner  of  treating  and  dismissing  the 
subject  was  a  tacit  reproach  to  me.  I  let  the  matter  drop  ; 
we  had  much  more  serious  topics  alloat  than  gossip  about 
our  neighbors. 

At  seven  next  morning  we  Avcrc  out  on  the  Flat. 

"  Fm  not  going  to  let  you  stand  here  in  the  dews,  Phineas. 
Come  a  little  farther  on,  to  my  terrace,  as  I  call  it.  There's 
a  panorama  ! " 

It  was  indeed.  All  around  the  high  flat  a  valley  lay, 
like  a  moat,  or  as  if  some  broad  river  had  been  dried  up  in 
its  course,  and,  century  after  century,  gradually  converted 
into  meadow,  woodland,  and  town.  For  a  little  white 
town  sat  demurely  at  the  bottom  of  the  hollow,  and  a  score 
or  two  of  white  cottages  scattered  themselves  from  this 
small  nucleus  of  civilization  over  the  opposite  bank  of  this 
imaginary  river,  which  was  now  a  lovely  hill-side.  Gorges, 
purple  with  shadow,  yellow  corn  fields,  and  dark  clumps 
of  woodland  dressed  this  broad  hill-side  in  many  colors ; 
its  highest  point,  Nunnely  Hill,  forming  the  horizon  where 
last  night  I  had  seen  the  sun  go  down,  and  which  now  was 
tinted  with  the  tenderest  western  morning  grey. 

"  Do  you  like  this,  Phineas  ?  I  do  very  much.  A  dear, 
smiling,  English  valley,  holding  many  a  little  nest  of  an 
English  home.  Fancy  being  patriarch  over  such  a  region, 
having  the  whole  valley  in  one's  hand,  to  do  good  to,  or  ill. 
You  can't  think  what  primitive  people  they  are  hereabouts 
9 


130  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

—descendants  from  an  old  colony  of  Flemish  cloth  weavers  : 
they  keep  to  the  trade.  Down  in  the  valley — if  one  could 
see  through  the  beech-wood — is  the  grand  support  of  the 
neighborhood^  a  large  cloth-mill  !  " 

"That's  quite  in  your  line,  John  ;"  and  I  saw  his  face 
brighten  up  as  it  had  done,  when,  as  a  boy,  he  had  talked 
to  me  abont  his  machinery.  "  What  has  become  of  that 
wonderful  little  loom  yon  made  ?  " 

"■  Oh  !  I  have  it  still.  But  this  is  such  a  fine  cloth  mill  ! 
— I  have  been  all  over  it.  If  the  owner  would  put  aside 
his  old  Flemish  stolidity  !  I  do  believe  he  and  his  ances- 
tors have  gone  on  in  the  same  way,  and  with  almost  the 
same  machinery,  ever  since  Queen  Elizabeth's  time.  Now, 
just  one  or  two  of  our  modern  improvements,  such  as — 
but  I  forget,  you  never  could  understand  mechanics." 

"  You  can,  though.  Explain  clearly,  and  I'll  try  my 
best." 

He  did  so,  and  so  did  I,  I  think  he  even  managed  to 
knock  something  of  the  matter  into  my  stui^id  head,  where 
it  remained — for  ten  minutes  !  Much  longer  remained  the 
impression  of  his  energetic  talk — his  clear-headed  way  of 
putting  before  another  what  he  understood  so  well  him- 
self.    I  marvelled  how  he  had  gained  all  his  information. 

"  Oh  !  it's  easy  enough,  when  one  has  a  natural  propen- 
sity for  catching  hold  of  facts ;  and  then,  you  know,  I 
always  had  a  weakness  for  machinery  ;  I  could  stand  for 
an  hour  watching  a  mill  at  work,  especially  if  it's  worked 
by  a  great  water-wheel." 

"  Would  you  like  to  be  a  mill-owner  ?" 

"  Shouldn't  I  ! " — with  a  sunshiny  flash,  which  soon 
clouded  over,  "  However,  'tis  idle  talking ;  one  cannot 
choose  one's  calling — at  least,  very  few  can.  After  all,  it 
isn't  the  trade  that  signifies — it's  the  man.  I'm  a  tanner, 
and  a  capital  tanner  I  intend  to  be.  By  the  bye,  I  wonder 
if  Mrs.  Tod,  who  talks  so  much  about  '  gentle-folk,' knows 
that  latter  fact  about  you  and  me  ?  " 

"  I  think  not ;  I  hope  not.  Oh,  David  !  this  one 
month  at  least  let  us  get  rid  of  the  tan-yard." 

For  I  hated  it,  more  than  ever  now,  in  our  quiet,  free, 


JOHISr   HALIFAX.  131 

Arcadian  life  ;  tlie  very  thought  of  it  was  insupportable, 
not  (.)nly  for  myself,  but  for  John. 

He  gently  blamed  me,  yet,  I  think,  he  involuntarily  felt 
much  as  I  did,  if  he  would  have  allowed  himself  so  to  feel. 

'•  Who  would  guess  now  that  1  who  stand  here  delight- 
ing myself  in  this  fresh  air  and  pleasant  view,  this  dewy 
common,  all  thick  with  flowers — what  a  pretty  blue  cluster 
that  is  at  your  foot,  Phineas  ! — who  would  guess  that  all 
yesterday  I  had  been  stirring  up  tan-pits,  liandling  raw 
hides  ?  Faugh  !  I  wonder  the  little  harebells  don't  sicken 
in  these  my  hands — such  ugly  hands,  too  !  " 

"  Nonsense,  John  I  they're  not  so  bad,  indeed  ;  and  if 
they  were,  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

"You  are  right,  lad;  it  does  not  matter.  They  have 
done  me  good  service,  and  will  yet,  though  they  were  not 
made  for  carrying  nosegays." 

"  There  is  somebody  besides  yourself  plucking  posies  on 
the  Flat.  See,  how  large  the  figure  looks  against  the  sky. 
It  might  be  your  Titaness,  John — 

'  Like  Proserpina  gathering  flowers, 
Herself  the  fairest—' 

— no,  not  fairest  ;  for  I  declare  she  looks  very  like  your 
friend  Grey-gown — I  beg  her  pardon — Miss  March." 

"  It  is  she,"  said  John,  so  indifferently  that  I  suspect 
that  fact  had  presented  itself  to  him  for  at  least  two  min- 
utes before  I  found  it  out. 

"  There's  certainly  a  fatality  about  your  meeting  her." 

"  Not  the  least.  She  has  this  morning  taken  a  walk  in 
a  different  direction,  as  I  did  ;  and  we  both  chanced  again 
to  hit  upon  the  same,"  answered  John,  gravely  and  explan- 
atorily. "  Come  away  down  the  slope.  We  must  not  in- 
trude upon  a  lady's  enjoyments." 

He  carried  me  off,  much  against  my  will,  for  I  had  a  great 
wish  to  see  again  that  fresh  young  face,  so  earnest,  cheer- 
ful, and  good.  Also,  as  I  labored  in  vain  to  convince  my 
companion,  the  said  face  indicated  an  independent  dig- 
nity which  would  doubtless  make  its  owner  perfectly  indif- 
ferent whether  her  solitary  walk  were  crossed  by  two  gentle- 
men, or  two  hundred. 


132  JOHlSr    HALIFAX. 

John  agreed  to  this ;  nevertheless,  he  Avas  inexorable. 
And,  since  he  was  "a,  man  of  the  world" — having,  in  his 
journeys  up  and  down  the  country  for  my  father,  occasion- 
ally fallen  into  "■  polite  "  society — I  yielded  the  point  to  him, 
and  submitted  to  his  larger  experience  of  good-breeding. 

However,  Fate,  kinder  than  he,  took  the  knot  of  etiquette 
into  her  own  hands,  and  broke  it. 

Close  to  the  cottage  door,  our  two  j^fiths  converging, 
and  probably  our  breakfast-hours  likewise,  brought  us 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  Miss  March. 

She  saw  us,  and  we  had  a  distinct  sight  of  her. 

I  was  right :  we  and  our  contiguity  were  not  of  the 
smallest  importance  to  Miss  March.  Her  fresh  morning 
roses  did  not  deepen,  nor  her  eyes  droop,  as  she  looked 
for  a  moment  at  us  both — a  quiet,  maidenly  look  of  mere 
observation.  Of  course,  no  recognition  passed  ;  but  there 
was  a  merry  dimj^do  beside  her  mouth,  as  if  she  quite  well 
knew  who  we  were,  and  owned  to  a  little  harmless  femi- 
nine curiosity  in  observing  us. 

She  had  to  pass  our  door,  where  stood  Mrs.  Tod  and 
the  baljy.  It  stretched  out  its  little  arms  to  come  to 
her,  with  that  pretty,  babyish  gesture  which  I  suppose  no 
woman  can  resist.  Miss  March  could  not.  She  stopped, 
and  began  tossing  up  the  child. 

Truly,  they  made  a  pleasant  picture,  the  two — she  with 
her  hooded  cloak  dropping  off,  showing  her  graceful  shajie, 
and  her  dark-brown  hair,  all  gathered  up  in  a  mass  of 
curls  at  the  top  of  her  head,  as  the  fashion  then  was.  As 
she  stood,  with  her  eyes  sparkling,  and  the  young  blood 
flushing  through  her  clear,  brunette  cheeks,  I  was  not 
sure  whether  I  had  not  judged  too  hastily  in  calling  her 
^^'no  beauty." 

Probably,  by  his  look,  John  thought  the  same. 

She  stood  right  before  our  wicket  gate  ;  but  she  had  evi= 
dently  quite  forgotten  us,  so  happy  was  she  with  Mrs. 
Tod's  bonny  boy,  until  the  landlady  made  some  remark 
about  "letting  the  gentlemen  by."  Then,  with  a  slight 
start,  drawing  her  hood  back  over  her  head,  the  young 
iady  stepped  aside. 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  133 

111  passing  her,  John  raised  his  eyes,  as  was  natural 
enough.  For  me,  I  could  hardly  take  mine  from  her,  such 
a  pleasant  creature  was  she  to  behold.  She  half  smiled — 
he  bowed,  which  she  returned,  courteously,  and  we  both 
went  in-doors.  I  told  him,  this  was  a  good  beginning  of 
acquaintance  with  our  neighbor. 

"  Not  at  all,  no  acquaintance  ;  a  mere  civility  between 
two  people  living  under  the  same  roof.  It  will  never  be 
more." 

"Probably  not." 

lam  afraid  John  was  disappointed  at  my  "  probably." 
lam  afraid  that  when  he  stood  at  our  window,  contemplat- 
ing the  little  group  which  filled  up  our  wicket-gate,  he 
missed  some  one  out  of  the  three, — which,  I  suspect,  was 
neither  ^Irs.  Tod  nor  yet  the  baby. 

"  I  like  her  face  very  much  better  now,  David.  Uo 
yon?" 

It  was  a  very  curious  fact,  whicli  T  never  noticed  till 
afterwards,  that  though  there  had  Iteeu  some  lapse  of  time 
before  I  hazarded  this  remark,  we  both  intuitively  sup2)lied 
tlie  noun  to  that  indefinite  personal  pronoun. 

"  A  good — nay,  a  noble  face  ;  though  still,  with  tliose 
irregular  features,  I  can't — really  I  can't — call  her  beauti- 
ful." 

"Nor  I." 

''  She  bowed  with  remarkable  grace,  too.  I  think,  John, 
for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  we  may  say  we  have  seen  a 
lady:' 

''  Most  certainly  a  lady." 

"  Nay,  I  only  meant  that,  girl  as  she  is,  she  is  evidently 
accustomed  to  what  is  called  'society.'  Whicli  makes  it 
the  more  likely  that  her  father  is  the  Mr.  March  who  was 
cousin  to  the  Brithwoods.     An  odd  coincidence." 

"  A  very  odd  coincidence." 

After  which  brief  reply,  John  relapsed  into  taciturnity. 

More  than  once  that  morning  we  recurred  to  the  sub- 
ject of  our  neighbors — that  is — I  did — but  John  was  rather 
saturnine  and  uncommunicative.  Nay,  when,  as  Mrs. 
Tod  was  removing  the  breakfast,  I  ventured  to  ask  her  a 


134  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

harmless  question  or  two, — who  Mr.  March  was,  and 
where  he  came  from  ? — I  was  abruptly  reproved,  the  very 
minute  our  good  landlady  had  shut  the  door,  for  my  ten- 
dency to  "gossip." 

At  which  I  only  laughed,  and  reminded  him  that  he  had 
ingeniously  scolded  me  after,  not  before,  I  had  gained  the 
desired  information — namely,  that  Mr.  March  was  a  gen- 
tleman of  independent  proj^erty — that  he  had  no  friends 
hereabouts,  and  that  he  usually  lived  in  Wales. 

"  He  cannot  be  our  Mr.  March,  then." 

"  No,"  said  John,  with  an  air  of  great  relief. 

I  was  amused  to  see  how  seriously  he  took  such  a  trifle  ; 
ay,  many  a  time  that  day  I  laughed  at  him  for  evincing 
such  great  sympathy  over  our  neighbors,  and  especially — 
which  was  plain,  enough  to  see,  though  he  doubtless  be- 
lieved he  entirely  disguised  it — for  that  interest  which 
a  young  man  of  twenty  would  naturally  take  in  a  very 
charming  and  personable  young  woman.  Ay,  naturally, 
as  I  said  to  myself,  for  I  admired  her  too,  extremely. 

It  seems  strange  now  to  call  to  mind  that  morning,  and 
our  light-hearted  jests  about  Miss  March.  Strange  that 
Destiny  should  often  come  thus,  creeping  like  a  child  to 
our  very  doors  ;  we  hardly  notice  it,  or  send  it  away  with  a 
laugh  ;  it  comes  so  naturally,  so  simply,  so  accidentally,  as 
it  were,  that  we  recognize  it  not.  We  cannot  believe  that 
the  baby  intruder  is  in  reality  the  king  of  our  fortunes,  the 
ruler  of  our  lives.  But  so  it  is  continually  ;  and  since  it 
is,  it  must  be  right. 

We  finished  the  morning  by  reading  Shakspeare — Romeo 
andJuliet — at  which  the  old  folio  seemed  naturally  to  open. 
There  is  a  time — a  sweet  time,  too,  tliough  it  does  not  last 
— when  to  every  young  mind  the  play  of  plays,  the  poem 
of  poems,  is  Romeo  and  Juliet.  We  were  at  that  phase 
now. 

John  read  it  all  through  to  me — not  for  the  first  time 
either  ;  and  then,  thinking  I  had  fallen  asleep,  he  sat  with 
the  book  on  his  knee,  gazing  out  of  the  open  window. 

It  was  a  warm  summer  day — breathless,  soundless — a  day 
for  quietness  and  dreams.     Sometimes  a  bee  came  buzzing 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  135 

among  the  roses,  in  and  away  again,  like  a  happy  thought. 
Nothing  else  was  stirring  ;  not  a  single  bird  was  to  be  seen 
or  heard,  except  that  now  and  then  came  a  coo  of  the 
wood  pigeons  among  the  beech-trees — a  low,  tender  voice 
— reminding  one  of  a  mother's  crooning  over  a  cradled 
child  ;  or  of  two  true  lovers  standing  clasped  heart  to 
heart,  in  the  first  embrace,  which  finds  not,  and  needs 
not,  a  single  word. 

John  sat  listening.     What  was  he  thinking  about  ?  Why 
that  strange  quiver  about  his  mouth  ? — why  that  wonder 
ful  new  glow,  that  infinite  depth  of  softness  in  his  eyes  ? 

I  closed  mine.  He  never  knew  I  saw  him.  He  thought 
I  slept  placidly  through  that  half-hpur,  which  seemed  to 
him  as  brief  as  a  minute.  To  me  it  was  long — ah,  so  long  ! 
as  I  lay  pondering  with  an  intensity  that  was  actual  pain, 
on  what  must  come  some  time,  and,  for  all  I  knew,  might 
even  now  be  coming. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  WEEK  slipped  by.  We  had  grown  familiar  with  Eu- 
derley  Hill — at  least,  I  had.  As  for  John,  he  had  little 
enough  enjoyment  of  the  pretty  spot  he  had  taken  such  a 
fancy  to,  being  absent  five  days  ont  of  the  seven  ;  riding 
away  when  the  morning  sun  had  slid  down  to  the  boles  of 
my  four  poplars,  and  never  coming  home  till  Venus  peeped 
out  over  their  heads  at  night.  It  was  hard  for  him  ;  but 
he  bore  the  disappoiniment  well. 

With  me,  one  day  went  by  just  like  another.  In  the 
mornings  I  crept  out,  climbed  the  hill  behind  Eose  Cottage 
garden,  and  there  lay  a  little  under  the  verge  of  the  Flat, 
in  a  sunny  shelter,  Avatching  the  ants  running  in  and  out 
of  the  numerous  ant-hills  there  ;  or  else  I  turned  my  obser- 
vation to  the  short  velvet  herbage  that  grew  everywhere 
hereabouts  ;  for  the  common,  so  far  from  being  barren, 
was  a  perfect  sheet  of  greenest,  softest  turf,  sowed  with 
minute  and  rare  flowers.  Often  a  square  foot  of  ground 
presented  me  with  enough  of  beauty  and  variety  in  color 
and  form,  to  criticise  and  contemplate  for  a  full  hour. 

My  human  interests  were  not  extensive.  Sometimes  the 
Enderley  villagers,  or  the  Tod  children,  who  were  a  grade 
above  these,  and  decidedly  "  res|)ectable,"  would  appear  and 
have  a  game  of  play  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  their  laughter 
rising  up  to  where  I  lay.  Or  some  old  woman  would  come 
with  her  jjails  to  the  spring  below,  a  curious  and  very  old 
stone  well,  to  which  the  cattle  from  the  common  often 
rushed  down  past  me  in  bevies,  and  stood  knee-deep,  their 
mouths  making  glancing  circles  in  the  water  as  they  drank. 

Being  out  of  doors  almost  all  day,  I  saw  very  little  of 
the  inhabitants  of  our  cottage.  Once  or  twice,  a  iacly  and 
gentleman  passed,  creeping  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,   so 

l3(J 


»  JOKX   HALIFAX.  IS'? 

slowl_y,  that  I  felt  sure  it  must  be  ^Ir.  March  and  his 
daughter.  He  was  tall,  with  grey  hair  ;  I  was  not  near 
enough  to  distinguish  his  features.  She  walked  on  the 
further  side,  supporting  him  with  her  arm.  Her  comfor- 
table morning  hood  was  put  oft',  and  she  liad  on  her  head 
that  ugly,  stiff  thing  which  ladies  had  lately  taken  to 
wearing,  and  which,  Jael  said,  Avas  called  a  ''bonnet." 

Except  on  these  two  occasions,  I  had  no  opportunity  of 
making  any  observations  on  the  manners  and  customs  of  our 
neighbors.  Occasionally  Mrs.  Tod  mentioned  them  in  her 
social  chatter,  while  laying  the  cloth  ;  but  it  was  always 
in  the  most  cursory  and  trivial  way,  such  as  "  Miss  March 
having  begged  that  the  children  might  be  kept  quiet — Mrs. 
Tod  hoped  their  noise  didn^t  disturb  me  ?  but  Mr.  March 
was  such  a  very  fidgetty  gentleman — so  jiarticular  in  his 
dress,  too — Why,  ]\Iiss  March  had  to  iron  his  cravats  with 
her  own  hands.  Besides,  if  there  was  a  pin  awry  in  her 
dress,  he  did  make  such  a  fuss — and,  really,  such  an  active, 
busy  young  lady  couldn't  look  always  as  if  she  came  trim 
out  of  a  band-box.  Mr.  March  wanted  so  much  waiting  on, 
he  seemed  to  fancy  he  still  had  his  big  house  in  Wales,  and 
his  seven  servants. ^^ 

Mrs.  Tod  conversed  as  if  she  took  it  for  granted  I  was 
fully  acquainted  with  all  the  prior  history  of  her  inmates,  or 
any  others  that  she  mentioned — a  hal^it  peculiar  to  Ender- 
ley  folk  with  strangers.  It  was  generally  rather  convenient, 
and  it  saved  much  listening  ;  but  in  this  case,  I  would 
rather  have  had  it  broken  through.  Sometimes  I  felt 
strongly  inclined  to  question  her  ;  but  on  consulting  John, 
he  gave  his  veto  so  decidedly  against  seeking  out  people's 
private  affairs  in  such  an  illicit  manner,  that  I  felt  quite 
guilty,  and  began  to  doubt  whether  my  sickly,  useless, 
dreaming  life,  was  not  inclining  me  to  curiosity,  gossip, 
and  other  small  vices  wliicli  we  are  accustomed — I  know 
not  why — to  insult  the  other  sex,  by  describing  as 
''womanish." 

As  I  have  said,  the  two  cottages  were  built  distinct,  so 
that  we  could  have  neither  sound  nor  sight  of  our  neigh- 
bors, save  upon  the  neutral  ground  of  3Irs.  Tod's  kitchen  : 


138  JOH]Sr    HALIFAX. 

where;,  however  I  might  have  felt  inclmed  to  venture, 
John's  prohibition  stopped  me  entirely. 

Thus — save  the  two  days  when  he  was  at  home,  when 
he  put  me  on  his  mare's  back,  and  led  me  far  away,  over 
common  and  valley,  and  hill,  for  miles,  only  coming  back 
at  twilight — save  those  two  blithe  days,  I  spent  the  week 
in  dignified  solitude,  and  was  very  thankful  for  Sunday. 

We  determined  to  make  it  a  long,  lovely  country  Sun- 
day ;  so  we  began  it  at  six  a.  m.  John  took  me  a  new 
walk  across  the  common,  where  he  said,  in  answer  to  my 
question— we  were  quite  certain  not  to  meet  Miss  Marcho 

"  Do  you  experimentalize  on  the  subject,  that  you  calcu- 
late her  paths  with  such  nicety  ?  Pray,  have  you  ever  met 
her  again,  for  I  know  you  have  been  out  most  mornings  ?  " 

"  Morning  is  the  only  time  I  have  for  walking,  you 
know,  Phineas." 

"  Ah,  true  !  You  have  little  pleasure  at  Enderley.  I 
almost  wish  we  could  go  home.'" 

"  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing.  It's  doing  you  a  world 
of  good.     Indeed,  we  must  not,  on  any  account,  go  home." 

I  know,  and  knew  then,  that  his  anxiety  was  in  earnest ; 
that  whatever  other  thoughts  might  lie  underneath,  the 
sincere  thought  of  me  was  the  one  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  Well,  we'll  stay — that  is,  if  you  are  happy,  John." 

"  Thoroughly  happy  ;  I  like  the  dashing  rides  to  Norton 
Bury.  Above  all,  I  like  coming  back.  The  minute  I  be- 
gin to  climb  Enderley  Hill,  the  tan-yard,  and  all  belong- 
ing to  it,  drops  off  like  an  incubus,  and  I  awake  into  free, 
beautiful  life.  K ow,  Phineas,  confess  ;  is  not  this  com- 
mon a  lovely  place,  especially  of  a  morning  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  I,  smiling  at  his  energy.  "  But  you  did  not 
tell  me  whether  you  had  met  Miss  March  again." 

"  She  has  never  once  seen  me." 

"  But  you  have  seen  her  ?     Answer  honestly." 

"  Why  should  I  not  ? — Yes,  I  have  seen  her — once  or 
twice  or  so — but  never  in  any  way  that  could  annoy  her." 

"  That  explains  why  you  have  become  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  direction  of  her  walks  ?  " 

He   colored   deeply.     '•  I   hope,  Phineas,   you   do   not 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  139 

think  that — that  in  any  way  I  would  intrude  on  or  offend  a 
lady?" 

"  Nay,  don't  take  it  so  seriously — indeed,  I  meant  nothing 
of  the  kind.  It  would  be  quite  natural  if  a  young  man 
like  you  did  use  some  pains  to  look  at  such  a  '  cunning 
piece  of  Nature's  handiwork'  as  that  apple-cheeked  girl  of 
seventeen. " 

"  Russet  apple.  She  is  brown,  you  know — a  real  '  nut- 
browne  mayde,'"  said  John,  recovering  his  gay  humor. 
"•  Certainly,  I  like  to  look  at  her.  I  have  seen  many  a 
face  that  was  more  good  looking — never  one  that  looked 
half  so  good." 

"  Sententious  that  ; "  yet  I  could  not  smile — ho  spoke 
with  such  earnestness.  Besides,  it  was  the  truth.  I  my- 
self Avould  have  walked  half-way  across  the  common  any 
day  for  a  glance  at  Miss  March.     Why  not  he  ? 

"  But,  John,  you  never  told  me  that  you  had  seen  her 
again  ?  " 

"  Because  you  never  asked  me." 

We  were  silent.  Silent  until  we  had  walked  along  the 
whole  length  of  a  Roman  encampment,  the  most  perfect 
of  the  various  fosses  that  seamed  the  flat — tokens  of  many 
a  battle  fought  on  such  capital  battle-ground,  and  which 
John  had  this  morning  especially  brought  me  to  look  at. 

"Yes,"  I  said  at  last,  putting  the  ending  affirmative  to 
a  long  train  of  thought,  which  was  certainly  not  al)out 
Roman  encampments  ;  "  yes,  it  is  quite  natural  that  you 
should  admire  her.  It  would  even  be  quite  natural,  and 
not  unlikely  either,  if  she — " 

"  Pshaw  I  "  interrupted  he.  '' What  nonsense  you  are 
talking  !  Impossible  ! "  and  setting  his  foot  sharply  upon 
a  loose  stone,  he  kicked  it  down  into  the  ditch,  where  pro- 
bably many  a  dead  Roman  had  fallen  before  it,  in  ages 
gone  by. 

The  impetuous  gesture — the  energetic  "  impossible," 
struck  me  less  than  the  quickness  with  which  his  mind  had 
worked  out  my  unexpressed  thought — carrying  it  to  a 
greater  length  than  I  myself  had  ever  contemplated. 

"  Truly,  no  possibilities  or  impossibilities  of  that  sort 


140  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

ever  entered  my  head.  I  only  thought  you  might  admire 
her,  and  be  unsettled  thereby  as  young  men  are,  when  they 
take  fancies.     That  would  grieve  me  very  much,  John." 

''Don't  let  it  then.  Why,  I  have  only  seen  her  five 
times  ;  I  never  spoke  to  her  in  my  life,  and  most  probably 
never  shall  do.  Could  any  one  be  in  a  safer  position  ?  Be- 
sides,'" and  his  tone  changed  to  extreme  gravity,  "•'  I  have 
too  many  worldly  cares  to  think  of  ;  I  can't  afford  the 
harmless  little  amusement  of  falling  in  love — so  be  easy, 
Phineas." 

I  smiled  ;  and  we  began  a  discussion  on  camps  and  fosses, 
vallum  and  prfetoriura  ;  the  Danes,  Saxons,  and  Normans, 
which,  doubtless,  we  carried  on  to  a  most  learned  length  ; 
but  at  this  distance  of  time,  and  indeed  the  very  day  after, 
I  plead  guilty  to  having  forgotten  all  about  it. 

That  long,  quiet  Sunday,  when,  I  remember,  the  sun 
never  came  out  all  day,  but  the  whole  earth  and  sky  melted 
together  in  a  soft,  grey  haze  ;  when  we  lay  on  the  common 
and  heard  church-bells  ringing,  some  distant,  some  near  ; 
and,  after  all  was  quiet,  talked  our  own  old  Sabbath  talks,  of 
this  world  and  the  world  to  come  ;  when,  towards  twilight, 
we  went  down  into  the  beech-wood  below  the  house,  and 
sat  idly  there  among  the  pleasant  smelling  ferns  ;  when, 
from  the  morning  to  the  evening,  he  devoted  himself  alto- 
gether to  my  comfort  and  amusement — to  perfect  which 
required  of  him  no  harder  duty  than  to  be  near  me  always  ; 
— that  Sunday  was  the  last  I  ever  had  David  altogether  for 
my  own — my  very  own. 

It  was  natural,  it  was  just,  it  was  right.  God  forbid 
that  in  any  way  I  should  have  murmured. 

About  ten  o'clock — just  as  he  was  luring  me  out  to  see 
how  grand  the  common  looked  under  the  black  night,  and 
we  were  wondering  whether  or  no  the  household  were  in 
bed — Mrs.  Tod  came  mysteriously  into  the  parlor,  and 
shut  the  door  after  her.  Her  round,  fresh  face  looked 
somewhat  troubled. 

'*  Mr.   Halifax,  might  I  speak  a  word  to  'ee,  sir  ?" 

"With  pleasure.  Sit  down,  Mrs.  Tod.  There's  noth- 
ing wrong  with  your  children  ?  " 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  141 


(( 


No,  I  thaiik'ee.  You  are  very  kind,  sir.  No,  it  be 
about  that  poor  Miss  March." 

I  could  see  John's  fingers  twitch  over  the  chair  he  was 
leaning  on.     "  I  hope — "  he  began,  and  stopped, 

"  Her  father  is  dreadful  bad  to-night,  and  it's  a  good 

seven-mile  walk  to  the  doctor's  at  S ;  and  Miss  Marcli 

says — that  is,  she  don't,  for  I  bean't  going  to  tell  her  a 
word  about  it — but  I  think,  Mr.  Halifax,  if  I  might  make 
so  bold,  it  would  be  a  great  kindness  in  a  young  gentleman 
like  you  to  lend  Tod  your  mare  to  ride  over  and  fetch  the 
doctor." 

"  I  will,  gladly.     At  once  ?" 

"  Tod  bean't  come  in  yet." 

"  He  shall  have  the  mare  with  pleasure.  Tell  Miss 
March  so — I  moan,  do  not  tell  her,  of  course.  It  was  very 
right  of  you  to  come  to  us  in  this  way,  Mrs.  Tod.  Really, 
it  would  be  almost  a  treat  to  be  ill  in  your  house — you  are 
so  kind." 

"  Thank'ee,  Mr.  Halifax,"  said  the  honest  landlady, 
greatly  delighted.  "  But  a  body  couldn't  help  doing  an}-- 
thing  for  Miss  March.  You  would  think  so  yourself,  if 
you  only  knew  her." 

"No  doubt,"  returned  John,  more  politely  than  warmly, 
I  fancied,  as  he  closed  the  door  after  the  retreating  figure 
of  Mrs.  Tod.  But  when  he  came  and  sat  down  again,  I 
saw  he  was  rather  thoughtful.  He  turned  the  books  rest- 
lessly, one  after  the  other,  and  could  not  settle  to  anything. 
To  all  my  speculations  about  our  sick  neighbor,  and  our 
pearl  of  kind-hearted  landladies,  he  only  replied  in  mono- 
syllables ;  at  last  he  started  up  and  said, 

"  Phineas,  I  think  I'll  go  myself." 

"AThere?" 

"  To  fetch  Doctor  Brown.  If  Tod  is  not  come  in,  it 
would  be  but  a  common  charity.     And  I  know  the  way." 

"  But  the  dark  night  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  matter  ;  the  mare  will  be  safer  under  me  than 
a  stranger.  And  though  I  have  taken  good  care  that  the 
three  horses  in  the  tan-yard  shall  have  the  journey,  turn 
and  turn  about,  still  it's  a  good  pull  from  here  to  Norton 


142  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Bnry,  aud  the  mare's  my  favorite.     I  would  ratlier  take  her 

myself. " 

I  smiled  at  his  numerous  good  reasons  for  doing  such  a 
very  simple  thing  ;  and  agreed  that  it  was  right  and  best 
he  should  do  it. 

"  Then  shall  I  call  Mrs.  Tod  and  enquire  ?  Or  perhaps 
it  might  make  less  fuss,  just  to  go  and  speak  to  her  in  the 
kitchen.     Will  you,  Phineas,  or  shall  1  ?" 

Scarcely  waiting  my  answer,  he  walked  from  our  parloi 
into  what  I  called  the  Dehateablo  Land. 

No  one  was  there.  We  remained  several  minutes  all 
alone,  listening  to  the  groanings  overhead. 

"  That  must  be  Mr.  March,  John."    * 

"  I  hear.  Good  heavens  !  how  hard  for  her.  And  she 
such  a  young  thing  and  alone,"  muttered  he,  as  he  stood 
gazing  into  the  dull  wood  embers  of  the  kitchen  fire.  I 
saw  he  was  moved  ;  but  the  expression  on  his  face  was  one 
of  pure  and  holy  compassion.  That  at  this  moment  no 
less  unselfish  feeling  mingled  with  it,  I  am  sure. 

Mrs.  Tod  appeared  at  the  door  leading  to  the  other  half 
of  the  cottage  ;  she  was  apparently  speaking  to  Miss  March 
on  the  staircase.  We  heard  again  those  clear,  quick,  de- 
cided tones,  but  subdued  to  a  half-whisper. 

"No,    Mrs.    Tod,   I   am  not  sorry  you  did   it — on  my 

father's  account,  'tis  best.     Tell  Mr.  ,   the  young 

gentleman,    I   forget   his   name  —  that   I  am  very   much 
obliged  to  him." 

"  I  will.  Miss  March  ; — stay,  he  is  just  here.  Bless  us  ! 
she  has  shut  the  door  already.  Won't  you  take  a  seat, 
Mr.  Halifax  ?  I'll  stir  up  the  fire  in  a  minute,  Mr. 
Fletcher.  You  are  always  welcome  in  my  kitchen,  young 
gentlemen."  And  Mrs.  Tod  bustled  about,  well  aware 
what  a  cosy  and  cheerful  old-fashioited  kitchen  it  was, 
esjDecially  of  evenings. 

But  when  John  explained  the  reason  of  our  intrusion, 
there  was  no  end  to  her  pleasure  and  gratitude.  He  was 
the  kindest  young  gentleman  that  ever  lived.  She  would 
tell  Miss  ]\Iarch  so  ;  as,  indeed,  she  had  done  many  a 
time. 


JOHX    HALIFAX.  143 

*' '  Miss/  said  I  to  her  the  very  first  day  I  set  eyes  on 
you,  when  I  luid  told  her  how  you  came  hunting  for  lodg- 
ings— (she  often  has  a  chat  with  me  quite  freely,  being  so 
lonesome-like,  and  knowing  I  to  he  too  proud  myself  to 
forget  that  she's  a  born  lady,) — 'Miss,'  said  I,  'who  Mr, 
Halifax  may  be  I  don't  know,  but  depend  upon  it,  he's  a 
real  gentleman.^ " 

I  was  the  sole  amused  auditor  of  this  speech,  for  John 
had  vanished.  In  a  few  minutes  more  he  had  brought  the 
mare  round,  and  after  a  word  or  two  with  me,  was  clatter- 
ing down  the  road. 

I  wondered  whether  this  time  any  white-furred  wrist 
stirred  the  blind  to  watch  him. 

John  was  away  a  wonderfully  short  time,  and  the  doctor 
rode  back  with  him.  They  parted  at  the  gate,  and  he 
came  hito  our  parlor,  his  cheeks  all  glowing  with  the  ride. 
He  only  remarked  that  ''  the  autumn  nights  were  getting 
chill,"  and  sat  down.     The  kitchen  clock  struck  one. 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  hours  ago,  Phineas. 
Will  you  not  go  ?  I  shall  sit  up  just  a  little  while,  to  hear 
how  Mr.  March  is." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear,  too.  It  is  curious  the  interest 
that  one  learns  to  take  in  people  tliat  are  absolute  strangers, 
when  shut  up  together  in  a  lonely  place  like  this,  espe- 
cially when  they  are  in  trouble." 

"Ay,  that's  it,"  said  he  quickly.  "It's  the  solitude, 
and  their  being  in  trouble.  Did  you  hear  anything  more 
while  I  was  away  ?" 

"  Only  that  Mr.  March  was  rather  better,  and  everybody 
had  gone  to  bed  except  his  daughter  and  Mrs.  Tod." 

"  Hark  !  I  think  that's  the  doctor  going  away.  I  won- 
der if  one  might  ask — no  !  they  would  think  it  intrusive. 
He  must  be  better.  But  Dr.  Brown  told  me  that  in  one  of 
these  paroxysms  he  might — Oh,  that  poor  young  thing  !" 

"  Has  she  no  relatives,  no  brothers  or  sisters  ?  Doctor 
Brown  surely  knows." 

"  I  did  not  like  to  ask,  but  I  fancy  not.  However,  that's 
not  my  business  :  my  business  is  to  get  you  off  to  bed,  Phin- 
eas Fletcher,  as  quickly  as  possible." 


144  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Wait  one  minute,  John.  Let  us  go  and  see  if  we  can 
do  anything  more." 

"  Ay — if  we  can  do  anything  more,"  repeated  he,  as  we 
again  recrossed  the  boundary-line,  and  entered  the  Tod 
country. 

Ail  was  quiet  there.  The  kitchen  lire  burnt  brightly, 
and  a  cricket  sang  in  merry  solitude  on  the  hearth  ;  the 
groans  overhead  were  stilled,  but  we  heard  low  talking,  and 
presently  stealthy  footsteps  crept  down  stairs.  It  was  Mrs. 
Tod  and  Miss  March. 

We  ought  to  have  left  the  kitchen  :  I  think  John  mut- 
tered something  to  that  effect,  and  even  made  a  slight 
movement  towards  the  door  ;  but — I  don't  know  how  it 
was — we  stayed. 

She  came  and  stood  by  the  fire,  scarcely  noticing  us.  Her 
fresh  cheeks  were  faded,  and  she  had  the  weary  look  of  one 
who  has  watched  for  many  hours.  Some  sort  of  white 
dimity  gown  that  she  wore,  added  to  this  paleness. 

"  I  think  he  is  better,  Mrs.  Tod — decidedly  better,"  said 
she,  speaking  quickly.  "  You  ought  to  go  to  bed  now. 
Let  all  the  house  be  quiet.     I  hope  you  told  Mr.  — Oh — " 

She  saw  us,  stopped,  and,  for  the  moment,  the  faintest 
tinge  of  her  roses  returned.  Presently  she  acknowledged 
us,  with  a  slight  bend. 

John  came  forward.  I  had  expected  some  awkwardness 
on  his  part ;  but  no — he  was  thinking  too  little  of  himself 
for  that.  His  demeanor — earnest,  gentle,  kind — was  the 
sublimation  of  all  manly  courtesy. 

"■  I  hope,  madam,'' — young  men  used  the  deferential  Avord 
in  those  days,  always — "  I  do  hope  that  Mr.  March  is  better. 
We  were  unwilling  to  retire  until  we  had  heard." 

"'  Thank  you  !  My  father  is  much  better.  You  are 
very  kind,"  said  Miss  March,  with  a  maidenly  dropping  of 
the  eyes. 

"  Indeed,  he  is  kind,"  broke  in  the  warm-hearted  Mrs. 

Tod.     "  He  rode  all  the  way  to  S ,  his  own  self,  to 

fetch  the  doctor." 

"  Did  you,  sir  ?     I  thought  you  only  lent  your  horse." 

"  Oh  !     I  like  a  night-ride.     And  you  are  sure,  madam, 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  145 

that  your  father  is  better  ?  Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do 
for  you?" 

His  sweet,  grave  manner,  so  much  graver  and  older  than 
his  years,  softened  too  with  that  quiet  deference  which 
marked  at  once  the  man  who  reverenced  all  women,  simply 
for  their  womanhood — seemed  entirely  to  re-assure  the 
young  lady.  This,  and  her  own  frankness  of  character, 
made  her  forget,  as  she  apparently  did,  the  fact  that  she 
was  a  young  lady  and  he  a  young  gentleman,  meeting  on 
unacknowledged  neutral  ground,  perfect  strangers,  or  know- 
ing no  more  of  one  another  than  the  mere  surname. 

Nature,  sincerity,  and  simplicity  conquered  all  trammels 
of  formal  custom.     She  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  I  thank  you  very  much,  ^fr.  Halifax.  If  I  wanted 
help  I  Avould  ask  you  ;  indeed,  I  would." 

"  Thank  you.     Good-night." 

He  pressed  the  hand  with  reverence — and  was  gone.  I 
saw  ^liss  March  look  after  him  ;  then  she  turned  to  speak 
and  smiled  with  me.  A  light  word,  an  easy  smile,  as  to  a 
poor  invalid  whom  she  had  often  pitied,  out  of  the  fulness 
of  her  womanly  heart. 

Soon  I  followed  John  into  the  parlor.  He  asked  me  no 
questions,  made  no  remarks,  only  took  his  candle  and  went 
upstairs. 

But,  years  afterwards,  he  confessed  to  me  that  the  touch 
of  that  hand — it  was  rather  a  peculiar  hand  in  the  "feel" 
of  it,  as  the  children  say,  with  a  very  soft  palm,  and  fingers 
that  had  a  habit  of  perpetually  fluttering,  like  a  little  bird's 
wing — the  touch  of  that  hand  was  to  the  young  man  like 
the  revelation  of  a  new  world. 

lO 


CHAPTER  XIL 

The  next  day  John  rode  away,  earlier  even  than  was  his 
wont,  I  thouglit.  He  stayed  but  a  little  while  talking  with 
me.  While  Mrs.  Tod  was  bustling  over  our  breakfast,  he 
asked  her,  in  a  grave  and  unconcerned  manner,  "  How  Mr. 
March  was  this  morning  ?  "  which  was  the  only  allusion  he 
made  to  the  previous  night's  occurrences. 

I  had  a  long,  quiet  day  alone  in  the  beech-wood,  close 
below  our  cottage,  sitting  by  the  little  runnel,  now  worn  to 
a  thread  with  the  summer  weather,  but  singing  still.  It 
talked  to  me  like  a  living-  thing. 

When  I  came  home  in  the  evening.  Miss  March  stood  in 
front  of  the  cottage,  with — strange  to  say — her  father.  But 
I  had  heard  that  his  paroxysms  were  often  of  brief  con- 
tinuance, and  that,  like  most  confirmed  valetudinarians, 
when  real  danger  stared  him  in  the  face,  he  put  it  from 
him,  and  Avas  glad  to  be  well. 

Seeing  me  coming.  Miss  March  whispered  to  him  ;  he 
turned  upon  me  a  listless  gaze  from  over  his  fur  collar,  and 
bowed  languidly,  without  rising  from  his  easy-chair.  Yes, 
it  was  Mr.  March — the  very  Mr.  March  we  had  met  !  I 
knew  him,  changed  though  he  was  ;  but  he  did  not  know 
me  in  tlie  least,  as,  indeed,  was  not  likely. 

His  daughter  came  a  step  or  two  to  meet  me.  "  You  are 
better,  I  see,  Mr.  Fletcher.  -Enderley  is  a  most  healthy 
place,  as  I  try  to  persuade  my  father.  This  is  Mr.  Fletcher, 
sir,  the  gentleman  who — " 

"  Was  so  obliging  as  to  ride  to  S ,  last  night,  for  me  ? 

Allow  me  to  thank  him  myself." 

I  began  to  disclaim,  and  Miss  March  to  explain  ;  but  we 
must  both  have  been  slightly  incoherent,  for  I  think  the 
poor  gentleman  was  never  quite  clear  as  to  who  it  was  that 
went  for  Dr.  Brown.     However,  that  mattered  little,  as  his 

146 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  147 

acknowledgments  were  evidently  dictated  more  by  a  natural 
luibit  of  courtesy,  than  by  any  strong  sense  of  service  ren- 
dei-ed. 

"  I  am  a  very  great  invalid,  sir  ; — my  dear,  will  you  ex- 
plain to  the  gentleman  ? "  And  he  leaned  his  head  back, 
wearily. 

''  My  father  has  never  recovered  his  ten  years'  residence 
in  the  West  Indies." 

' ' '  Residence  ?  '  Pardon  me,  my  dear,  you  forget  I  was 
governor  of ." 

"  Oh,  yes ! — The  climate  is  very  trying  there,  Mr. 
Fletcher.  But  since  he  has  been  in  England — five  years 
only — he  has  been  very  much  better.  I  hope  he  will  be 
([uite  well  in  time." 

Mr.  March  shook  his  head  drearily.  Poor  man  !  the 
world  of  existence  to  him  seemed  to  have  melted  lazily  down 
into  a  mere  nebula,  of  which  the  forlorn  nucleus  was — him- 
self. What  a  life  for  any  young  creature — even  his  own 
daughter,  to  be  bound  to  continually  ! 

I  could  not  help  remarking  the  strong  contrast  between 
them.  He,  with  his  sallow,  delicately-shaped  features — the 
thin  mouth,  and  long,  straight  nose,  of  that  form  I  have 
heard  called  the  "  melancholy  nose,"  which  usually  indi- 
cates a  feeble,  pensive,  and  hypochondriac  temperament ; 
while  his  daughter — But  I  have  described  her  already. 

"  Mr.  Fletcher  is  an  invalid  too,  father,"  she  said  ;  so 
gently,  that  I  could  feel  no  pain  in  her  noticing  my  infir- 
mity ;  and  took  gratefully  a  seat  she  gave  me,  beside  that 
of  Mr.  March.  She  seemed  inclined  to  talk  to  me ;  and 
her  manner  was  perfectly  easy,  friendly,  and  kind. 

We  spoke  of  common-place  subjects,  near  at  hand,  and 
of  the  West  Indian  island,  which  its  late  "  governor  "  w^as 
apparently  by  no  means  inclined  to  forget.  I  asked  Miss 
March  whether  she  had  liked  it  ? 

"  I  was  never  there.  Papa  was  obliged  to  leave  me  be- 
hind in  Wales — poor  mamma's  country.  Were  you  ever 
in  Wales  ?  I  like  it  so  !  Indeed,  I  feel  as  if  I  belonged  al- 
together to  the  mountains." 

And  saying  this,  she  looked  the  very  incarnation  of  the 


148  JOHN^    HALIFAX. 

free  mountain  spirit— a  little  rugged,  perhaps,  and  sharply 
outlined  ;  but  that  would  soften  with  time,  and  was  better 
and  wholesomer  than  any  tame  greeii  level  of  soft  perfec- 
tion.    At  least,  one  inclined  to  think  so,  looking  at  her. 

I  liked  Miss  March  very  much,  and  was  glad  of  it. 

In  retiring,  with  her  father  leaning  on  her  arm,  to  which 
he  hung  trustingly  and  feebly  as  a  child,  she  turned  ab- 
ruptly, and  asked  if  she  could  lend  me  any  books  to  read  ? 
I  must  find  the  days  long  and  dull  without  my  friend. 

I  assented  with  thanks  ;  and  shortly  afterwards,  she 
brought  me  an  armful  of  literature — enough  to  have  caused 
any  young  damsel  to  have  been  dubbed  a  "  blue,"  in  those 
matter-of-fact  days. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  study  much  myself,"  said  she,  in  an- 
swer to  my  questions  ;  "  but  I  like  those  who  do.  Now 
good  evening,  for  I  must  run.  You  and  your  friend  can 
have  any  books  of  ours.  You  must  not  think" — and  she 
turned  Ijack  to  tell  me  this—''  that  because  my  father  said 
little,  he  and  I  are  not  deeply  grateful  for  the  kindness 
Mr.  Halifax  showed  us  last  night." 

' '  It  was  a  pleasure  to  John — it  always  is — to  do  a  kind 
office  for  any  one." 

"  I  well  believe  that,  Mr.  Fletcher."     And  she  left  me. 

When  John  came  home,  I  informed  him  of  what  had 
passed.  He  listened,  though  he  made  no  comment  what- 
ever. But  all  the  evening  he  sat  turning  over  Miss  March's 
books,  and  reading  either  aloud  or  to  himself,  fragments 
out  of  one — which  I  had  expected  he  woxild  have  scouted, 
inasmuch  as  it  was  modern,  not  classical  poetry  ; — in  fact, 
a  collection  of  Lyrical  Ballads,  brought  out  that  year  by 
a  young  man  named  Mr.  William  Wordsworth,  and  some 
anonymous  friend,  conjointly.  I  had  opened  it,  and  found 
therein  great  nonsense  ;  but  John  had  better  luck — he  hit 
upon  a  short  poem  called  "Love,"  by  the  Anonymous 
Friend,  which  he  read,  and  I  listened  to,  almost  as  if  it  had 
been  Shakspeare.  It  was  about  a  girl  named  Genevieve, — 
a  little  simple  story — everybody  knows  it  now  ;  but  it  was 
like  a  strange,  low,  mystic  music,  luring  the  very  heart 
out  of  one's  bosom,  to  us  young  visionaries  then. 


JOH>f    HALIFAX.  149 

I  wondor  if  ^Ji.-s  March  knew  the  harm  slie  did,  and  tlie 
mischief  that  has  hcen  done  among  yonng  people  in  all  ages 
(since  Caxton's  days),  hy  the  lending  books,  especially 
books  of  poetry. 

The  next  day,  John  was  in  a  curious  mood.  Dreamy, 
lazy,  mild  ;  he  sat  poring  in-doors,  instead  of  roaming 
abroad — in  truth,  was  a  changed  lad.  I  told  him  so,  and 
laid  it  all  to  the  blame  of  the  Anonymous  Friend  :  who  held 
him  in  such  fascinated  thrall  thai:  ho  only  looked  up  once 
all  the  morning, — which  was,  when  Mr.  and  Miss  March 
went  bv.  In  the  afternoon,  he  submitted,  lamb-like,  to  be 
led  down  to  the  beech-wood — that  the  wonderful  talking- 
stream  might  hold  forth  to  him  as  it  did  to  me.  But  it 
could  not — ah,  no  !  it  could  not.  Our  lives,  though  so 
close,  were  yet  as  distinct,  as  the  musical  living  water  and 
the  motionless  grey  rock  beside  Avhich  it  ran.  The  one 
swept  joyfully  on  to  its  appointed  course  :  the  other, — was 
what  Heaven  made  it,  abode  where  Heaven  placed  it,  and 
likewise  fulfdled  its  end. 

Coming  back  out  of  the  little  wood,  I  took  John  a  now 
way  I  had  discovered,  through  the  prettiest  undulating 
meadow,  half-field,  half-orchard,  where  trees  loaded  with 
ripening  cider  apples  and  green  crabs,  made  a  variety 
among  the  natural  foresters.  Under  one  of  these,  as  we 
climbed  the  slope — for  field,  beech-wood,  and  common 
formed  a  gradual  ascent — we  saw  a  vacant  table  laid. 

"  A  pretty  piece  of  rusticity — domestic  arcadia  on  a  small 
scale,^'  said  John  ;  "  I  should  like  to  invite  myself  to  tea 
with  them.     Who  can  they  be  ? " 

"  Probably  visitors.  Eesident  country-folks  like  their 
meals  best  under  a  decent  roof-tree.  I  should  not  wonder 
if  this  were  not  one  of  Mr,  March's  vagaries.'^ 

'•'Don't  say  vagaries — he  is  an  old  man.'' 

"  Don't  be  reproachful — I  shall  say  nought  against  hinic 
Indeed,  I  have  no  opportunity,  for  there  they  both  are  com- 
ing hither  from  the  house." 

Sure  enough  they  were — ^liss  March  helping  her  father 
across  the  uneven  bit  of  common  to  the  gate  which  led  to 
the  field.     Precisely  at  that  gate  we  all  four  met. 


150  JOHN    HALIFAX. 


a  >r 


^Tis  useless  to  escape  them,"  whispered  I  to  John. 

"I  do  not  wish — why  should  I  ?"  he  answered,  and  held 
the  gate  open  for  the  fatlier  and  daughter  to  go  througli. 
She  looked  up  and  acknowledged  him,  smiling.  I  thought 
that  smile  and  his  courteous,  but  far  less  frank  response  to 
it,  would  have  been  all  the  greeting  ;  but  no  !  Mr,  March's 
dull  perceptions  had  somehow  been  brightened  up.  He 
stojjped. 

''Mr.  Halifax,  I  believe?'* 

John  bowed. 

They  stood  a  moment  looking  at  one  another  ;  the  tall, 
stalwart  young  man,  so  graceful  and  free  in  bearing,  and 
the  old  man,  languid,  sickly,  prematurely  broken  down. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  elder,  and  in  this  fixed  gaze  I  fancied  I 
detected  something  more  than  curiosity — something  of  the 
lingering  pensiveness  with  which,  years  ago,  he  had  turned 
back  to  look  at  John — as  if  the  lad  reminded  him  of  some 
one  he  knew,  "  Sir,  I  have  to  thank  you." 

"  Indeed  no  thanks  are  needed.  I  sincerely  hope  you  are 
better  to-day  ?  " 

Mr.  March  assented  :  but  John's  countenance  apparently 
interested  him  so  much  that  he  forgot  his  usual  complain- 
ings. "  My  daughter  tells  me  you  are  our  neighbors — I  am 
happy  to  have  such  friendly  ones.  My  dear,"  in  a  half 
audible,  pensive  whisper  to  her,  "  I  think  your  poor  brother 
Walter  would  have  grown  up  extremely  like  Mr. — Mr. — " 

'■'Mr.  Halifax,  papa." 

''  Mr.  Halifax,  we  arc  going  to  take  tea  under  the  trees 
there — my  daughter's  suggestion — she  is  so  fond  of  rural- 
ity.     Will  you  give  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company  ?     Yon 

and "  here,  I  must  confess,  the  second  invitation  came 

in  reply  to  a  glance  of  Miss  March's — "your  friend." 

Of  course,  we  assented  :  I  considerably  amused,  and  not 
ill-pleased,  to  see  how  naturally  it  fell  out  that  when  John 
appeared  in  the  scene,  I,  Phineas,  subsided  into  the  second- 
ary character  of  John's  "friend." 

Very  soon — so  soon,  that  our  novel  position  seemed  like 
an  adventure  out  of  the  Arabian  Nights — we  found  our- 
selves  established   under  the   apple-tree,   between   whose 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  151 

branches  the  low  sun  stole  in,  kissing  in  red  chestnut-color 
the  hair  of  the  "  Nut-browne  Mayde,"  as  she  sat,  bare- 
headed, pouring  into  small  white  china  cups  that  dainty 
luxury,  tea.  She  had  on — not  the  grey  gown,  but  a  white 
one,  worked  in  delicate  muslin.  A  branch  of  those  small 
pinky-white  roses  that  grew  in  such  clusters  about  our 
parlof  window,  nestled,  almost  as  if  they  were  still  grow- 
ing, in  her  fair  maiden  bosom. 

She  apologized  for  little  Jack's  having  "  stolen  "  them 
from  our  domains  for  her — lucky  Jack  !  and  received  some 
brief  and  rather  incoherent  answer  from  John,  about  being 
"■  quite  welcome." 

He  sat  opposite  her — I  by  her  side — she  had  placed  me 
there.  It  struck  me  as  strange,  that  though  her  manner 
to  us  both  was  thoroughly  frank  and  kind,  it  was  a  shade 
more  frank,  more  kind,  to  me  than  to  him.  Also,  I  noted, 
that  while  she  chatted  gaily  with  me,  John  almost  entirely 
confined  his  talk  to  her  father. 

But  the  young  lady  listened — ay,  undoubtedly  she  lis- 
tened— to  every  word  that  was  said.  I  did  not  wonder  at 
it  :  when  his  tongue  was  once  unloosed,  few  j^eople  could 
talk  better  than  John  Halifax.  ISOt  that  he  was  one  of 
your  showy  conversationalists  ;  language  was  with  him  nei- 
ther a  science,  an  art,  nor  an  accomplishment,  but  a  mere 
vehicle  for  thought  ;  the  garb,  ahvays  chosen  as  simplest 
and  fittest,  in  which  his  ideas  were  clothed.  His  conversa- 
tion was  never  wearisome,  since  he  only  spoke  when  he  had 
something  to  say  ;  and  having  said  it,  in  the  most  concise 
and  appropriate  manner  that  suggested  itself  at  the  time 
—he  was  silent ;  and  silence  is  a  great  and  rare  virtue  at 
twenty  years  of  age. 

We  talked  a  good  deal  about  Wales  ;  John  had  been 
there  more  than  once  in  his  journeyings  ;  and  this  fact 
seemed  to  warm  Miss  March's  manner,  rather  shy  and  re- 
served though  it  was,  at  least  to  him.  She  told  us  many 
an  innocent  tale  of  her  life  there — of  her  childish  days,  and 
of  her  dear  old  governess,  whose  name,  I  remember,  was 
Cardigan.  She  seemed  to  have  grown  up  solely  under  that 
lady's  charge.     It  was  not  difficult  to  guess — though  I  for- 


152  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

get  whether  she  distinctly  toldns  so — that  "  poor  mamma" 
had  died  so  early  as  to  become  a  mere  name  to  her  orphan 
daughter.  She  evidently  owed  everything  she  was  to  this 
good  governess. 

"  My  dear/'  at  last  said  Mr.  March,  rather  testily,  '^you 
make  rather  too  much  of  our  excellent  Jane  Cardigan. 
8he  is  going  to  be  married,  and  she  will  not  care  for  you 
now." 

"  Hush  !  papa,  that  is  a  secret  at  present.  Pray,  Mr. 
Halifax,  do  you  know  Norton  Bury  ?  " 

The  abruptness  of  the  question  startled  John,  so  that  he 
only  answered  in  a  hurried  affirmative.  Indeed,  Mr.  March 
left  him  no  time  for  further  explanation. 

"  I  hate  the  place.  My  late  wife's  cousins,  the  Brith- 
woods  of  the  Mythe,  with  whom  I  have  had — ahem  ! — 
strong  political  differences — live  there.  And  I  was  once 
nearly  drowned  in  the  Severn,  close  by." 

"  Papa,  don't  speak  of  that,  please,"  said  Miss  March, 
hurriedly  ;  so  hurriedly,  that  I  am  sure  she  did  not  notice 
what  would  otherwise  have  been  plain  enough — John's 
sudden  and  violent  color.  But  the  flush  died  down  again 
—he  never  spoke  a  Avord.  And,  of  course,  acting  on  his 
evident  desire,  neither  did  I. 

"For  my  part,"  continued  the  young  lady,  "I  have  no 
dislike  to  Norton  Bury.  Indeed,  I  rather  admired  the 
place,  if  I  remember  right." 

"  You  have  been  there  ? "  Though  it  was  the  simplest 
question,  John's  sudden  look  at  her,  and  the  soft  inflexion 
of  his  voice,  struck  me  as  peculiar. 

"  Once,  when  I  was  about  twelve  years  old.  But  we  will 
talk  of  something  jiapa  likes  better.  I  am  sure  papa  enjoys 
this  lovely  evening.  Hark  !  how  the  doves  are  cooing  in 
the  beech-wood  ?  " 

I  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  been  in  the  beech- wood. 

No  ;  she  was  quite  unacquainted  with  its  mysteries — the 
fern-glades,  the  woodbine  tangles,  and  the  stream,  that,  if 
you  listened  attentively,  you  could  hear  faintly  gurgling 
even  where  we  sat. 

"  I  did  not  know  there  was  a  stream  so  near.     I  have 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  153 

generally  taken  my  walks  across  the  Flat,"  said  Miss 
March,  smiling,  and  then  blushing  at  having  done  so, 
though  it  was  the  faintest  blush  imaginable. 

JS' either  of  us  made  any  reply. 

Mr.  March  settled  himself  to  laziness  and  his  arm-chair  ; 
the  conversation  fell  to  the  three  younger  persons — I  may 
say  the  two — for  I  also  seceded,  and  left  John  master  of 
the  field.  It  was  enough  for  me  to  sit  listening  to  him 
and  Miss  March,  as  they  gradually  became  more  friendly  ; 
a  circumstance  natural  enough,  under  tlie  influence  of 
that  simple,  solitary  place,  where  ail  the  pretences  of 
etiquette  seemed  naturally  to  drop  away,  leaving  nothing 
but  the  forms  dictated  and  preserved  by  true  manliness 
and  true  womanliness. 

How  young  both  looked,  how  happy  in  their  frank,  free 
youth,  with  the  sun-rays  slanting  down  up(jn  them,  mak- 
ing a  glory  round  either  head,  and — as  glory  often  does — 
dazzling  painfully. 

"Will  you  change  seats  with  me.  Miss  March? — The 
sun  will  not  reach  your  eyes  there." 

She  declined,  refusing  to  punish  any  one  for  her  con- 
venience. 

''It  would  not  be  punishment,"  said  John,  so  gravely, 
that  one  did  not  recognise  it  for  a  "  pretty  speech  "  till  it 
had  passed — and  went  on  with  their  conversation.  In  the 
course  of  it,  he  managed  so  carefully,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  carelessly,  to  interpose  his  broad  hat  between  the 
sun  and  her,  that  the  fiery  old  king  went  down  in  splendor 
before  she  noticed  that  she  had  been  thus  guarded  and 
sheltered.  Though  she  did  not  speak — why  should  she  ? 
of  such  a  little  thing — yet  it  was  one  of  those  "little 
things^'  which  often  touch  a  woman  more  than  any 
svords. 

Miss  March  rose.  "  I  should  greatly  like  to  hear  your 
stream  and  its  wonderful  singing."  (John  Halifax  had 
been  telling  how  it  held  forth  to  me  during  my  long, 
lonely  days) — "  I  wonder  what  it  would  say  to  me  ?  Can 
we  hear  it  from  the  bottom  of  this  field  ?  " 

•'  Not  clearly  ;  we  had  better  go  into  the  wood."     For  I 


154  JOHN    HALIFAX, 

knew  John  would  like  that,  though  he  was  too  great  a 
hypocrite  to  second  my  proposal  by  a  single  word. 

Miss  March  was  more  single-minded,  or  else  had  no 
reason  for  being  the  contrary.  She  agreed  to  my  plan 
with  childish  eagerness.  "  Papa,  you  wouldn't  miss  me — - 
I  shall  not  be  away  five  minutes.  Then,  Mr.  Fletcher, 
will  you  go  with  me  ?  " 

"  And  I  will  stay  beside  Mr.  March,  so  that  he  will  not 
be  left  alone,"  said  John,  re-seating  himself. 

Whctt  did  the  lad  do  that  for  ? — why  did  he  sit  watch- 
ing us  so  intently,  as  I  led  Miss  jVIarch  down  the  meadow, 
and  into  the  wood  ?     It  passed  my  comprehension. 

The  young  girl  walked  with  me,  as  she  talked  with  me, 
in  perfect  simplicity  and  frankness,  free  from  the  smallest 
hesitation.  Even  as  the  women  I  have  known  have  treated 
me  all  my  life — showing  me  that  sisterly  trust  and  sisterly 
kindness  which  have  compensated  in  a  measure  for  the 
solitary  fate  which  it  pleased  Heaven  to  lay  upon  me  ; 
Avhich,  in  any  case,  conscience  would  have  forced  me  to 
lay  upon  myself — that  no  woman  should  ever  be  more  to 
me  than  a  sister. 

Yet  I  watched  her  with  pleasure — this  young  girl,  as 
she  tripped  on  before  me,  noticing  everything,  enjoying 
everything.  She  talked  to  me  a  good  deal  too  about  my- 
self, in  her  kindly  way,  asking  what  I  did  all  day  ?— and 
if  I  were  not  rather  dull  sometimes,  in  this  solitary  country 
lodging  ? 

"I  am  dull  occasionally  myself,  or  should  be,  if  I  had 
time  to  think  about  it.     It  is  hard  to  be  an  only  child."" 

I  told  her  I  had  never  found  it  so. 

"  But  then  you  have  your  friend.  Has  Mr.  Halifax  any 
bi'others  or  sisters  ?  " 

■^^  None.     No  relatives  living." 

"  Ah  ! "  a  compassionate  ejaculation,  as  she  pulled  a 
woodbine  spray,  and  began  twisting  it  with  those  never- 
quiet  fingers  of  hers.  "  You  and  he  seem  to  be  great 
friends  ?  " 

'Mohn  is  a  brother,  friend,  everything  in  the  world  to  me. " 

'"Is  he  ?     He  must  be  very  good.     Indeed,  he  looks  so,'' 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  155 

observed  Miss  March,  thoughtfully.  "And  I  believe — at 
least  I  have  often  heard — that  good  men  are  rare." 

I  had  no  time  to  enter  into  that  momentous  question, 
when  the  origin  of  it  himself  appeared,  breaking  through 
the  bushes  to  join  us. 

He  apologized  for  so  doing,  sa^dng  Mr.  March  had  sent 
him. 

*'  You  surely  do  not  mean  that  you  come  upon  compul- 
sion.    What  an  ill  compliment  to  this  lovely  wood.'' 

And  the  eyes  of  the  "Nut-browne  Mayde"  were  a  little 
mischievous.  John  looked  preteriiaturally  grave,  as  he 
said,  "  I  trust  you  do  not  object  to  my  coming  ?  " 

She  smiled — so  merrily,  that  his  slight  haughtiness  evapo- 
rated like  mist  before  the  sunbeams. 

''I  was  obliged  to  startle  you  by  jumjnng  through  the 
bushes  ;  for  I  heard  my  own  name.  \\'hat  terrible  revela- 
tions has  this  friend  of  mine  been  making  to  you,  Miss 
March?" 

He  spoke  gaily  ;  but  I  fancied  he  looked  uneasy.  The 
young  lady  only  laughed. 

''I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Halifax." 

''  Not  Avhen  I  ask  you  ?  " 

He  spoke  so  seriously  that  she  could  not  choose  but  reply. 

"  Mr.  Fletcher  was  telling  me  three  simple  facts: — First 
that  you  were  an  or|)han,  without  relatives.  Secondly,  that 
you  were  his  dearest  friend.  Thirdly — well.  I  never  com- 
promise truth — that  you  were  good." 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"  The  first  I  was  ignorant  of  ;  the  second  I  had  already 
guessed  ;  the  third " 

He  gazed  at  her  intentl}'. 

"  The  third  I  had  likewise — not  doubted." 

John  made  some  hurried  acknowledgment.  He  looked 
^eatly  pleased — nay,  more  than  pleased — happy.  He 
walked  forward  by  Miss  March's  side,  taking  his  natural 
place  in  the  conversation,  while  I  as  naturally  as  willingly 
fell  behind.  But  I  heard  all  they  said,  and  joined  in  it 
now  and  then. 

Thus,  sometimes   spoken  to,  and  sometimes  left  silent 


156  JOHlSr    HALIFAX. 

watching  their  two  figures,  and  idly  noting  their  compara- 
tive heights — her  head  came  just  above  John's  shoulder — 
I  followed  these  young  people  through  the  quiet  wood. 

Let  me  say  a  word  about  that  wood — dear  and  familiar  as 
it  was.  Its  like  I  have  never  since  seen.  It  was  small — 
so  small  that  in  its  darkest  depths  you  might  catch  the 
sunshine  lighting  up  the  branches  of  its  outside  trees. 
A  young  wood,  too — composed  wholly  of  smooth-barked 
beeches  and  sturdy  Scotch  firs,  growing  up  side  by  side — 
the  Adam  and  Eve,  in  this  forest  Eden.  Xo  old  folk  were 
there — no  gnarled  and  withered  foresters — every  tree  rose 
up,  upright  in  its  youth,  and  perfect  after  its  kind.  There 
was  as  yet  no  choking  under-growth  of  vegetation  ;  nothing 
but  mosses,  woodbine,  and  ferns  ;  and  between  the  boles  of 
the  trees  you  could  trace  vista  after  vista,  as  between  the 
slender  pillars  of  a  cathedral  aisle. 

John  pointed  out  all  this  to  Miss  March,  especially  notic- 
ing the  peculiar  character  of  the  two  species  of  trees — the 
masculine  and  feminine — fir  and  beech.  She  smiled  at  the 
fancy  ;  and  much  graceful  badinage  went  on  between  them. 
I  had  never  before  seen  John  in  the  company  of  women, 
and  I  marvelled  to  2>erceive  the  refinement  of  his  language, 
and  the  poetic  ideas  it  clothed.  I  forgot  the  truth — of 
whose  saying  was  it? — ''that  once  in  his  life  every  man 
becomes  a  poet." 

They  stood  by  the  little  rivulet,  and  he  showed  her  how 
the  water  came  from  the  spring  above  ;  the  old  well-head 
where  the  cattle  drank  :  how  it  took  its  course  merrily 
through  the  woods,  till  at  the  bottom  of  the  valley  below 
it  grew  into  a  wide  stream. 

"  Small  beginnings  make  great  endings,"  observed  Miss 
March  sententiously. 

John  answered  her  with  the  happiest  smile  I  He  dipped 
his  hollowed  palm  into  the  water,  and  drank  :  she  did  the 
same.  Then,  in  her  free-hearted  girlish  fun,  she  formed  a 
cup  out  of  a  broad  leaf,  which,  by  the  greatest  ingenuity, 
she  managed  to  make  contain  about  two  tea-s]ioonfuls  of 
water  for  the  space  of  half-a-minute,  and  held  it  to  my 
mouth. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  lo? 

"  I  am  like  Rebecca  at  the  well.  Drink,  Eleazer/'  she 
cried,  gaily. 

John  looked  on.  "  I  am  very  thirsty,  too/'  said  he,  in 
a  low  voice. 

The  young'  girl  hesitated  a  moment ;  then  fdled  and 
offered  to  him  the  Arcadian  cup.  I  fear,  he  drank  out  of 
it  a  deeper  and  more  subtle  draught  than  that  innocent 
water. 

Both  became  somewhat  grave,  and  stood,  one  on  either 
side  the  stream,  looking  down  upon  it,  letting  its  bubbling 
murmur  have  all  the  talk.  What  it  said,  I  know  not ;  I 
only  know  that  it  did  not,  could  not,  say  to  those  two  what 
it  said  to  me. 

AVheu  we  took  leave  of  our  acquaintances,  ilr.  March 
was  extremely  courteous,  and  declared  our  society  would 
always  be  a  pleasure  to  himself  and  his  daughter. 

"  He  always  says  so  formally,  'my  daughter,' "  I  observed, 
breaking  the  silence  in  Avhich  they  had  left  us.  "  I  wonder 
what  her  Christian  name  is." 

"  I  believe  it  is  Ursula." 

"  How  did  you  find  that  out  ?" 

"  It  is  written  in  one  of  her  books." 

"  Ursula  !  "  I  repeated,  wondering  where  I  had  heard  it 
before.     "  A  pretty  name. 

"  A  very  pretty  name." 

When  John  fell  into  this  echo  mood,  I  always  found  it 
best  to  fall  into  taciturnity. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Next  day,  the  rain  poured  down  incessantly,  sweeping 
bliudingiy  across  the  hills  as  I  have  rarely  seen  it  sweep 
except  at  Enderley.  The  Aveather  had  apparently  broken 
up,  even  thus  early  in  the  autumn  ;  and  for  that  day,  and 
several  days  following,  we  had  notliing  but  wind,  rain,  and 
storm.  The  sky  was  as  dusky  as  Miss  March's  grey  gown  ; 
--broken  sometimes  in  the  evening  by  a  rift  of  misty  gold, 
gleaming  over  Nunnely  Hill,  as  if  to  show  us  what  Sep- 
tember sunsets  might  have  been. 

John  went  every  day  to  Norton  Bury  that  week.  His 
mind  seemed  restless — he  was  doubly  kind  and  attentive  to 
me  ;  hut  every  night  I  heard  him  go  out  in  all  the  storm  to 
walk  upon  the  common.  I  longed  to  follow  him,  but  it  was 
best  not. 

On  the  Saturday  morning,  coming  up  to  breakfast,  I 
heard  him  ask  Mrs.  Tod  how  Mr.  March  was  ?  We  knew 
the  invalid  had  been  ailing  all  the  week,  nor  had  we  seen 
him  or  his  daughter  once. 

Mrs.  Tod  shook  her  head  ominously.  ^'  He  is  very  bad. 
sir  ;  badder  than  ever,  I  do  think.  She  sits  up  wi*  him 
best  part  of  every  night." 

"  I  imagined  so.     I  have  seen  her  light  burning." 

"  Law,  Mr.  Halifax  !  you  don't  be  walking  abroad  of 
nights  on  the  Flat  ?  It's  terrible  bad  for  your  health," 
cried  the  honest  soul,  who  never  disguised  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Halifax  was  her  favorite  of  all  her  lodgers,  save  and  except 
Miss  March. 

"Thank  you  for  considering  my  health,"  he  replied, 
smiling.  "  Only  tell  me,  Mrs.  Tod,  can  anything  be  done 
— can  we  do  anything  for  that  poor  gentleman  ?  " 

*'  Nothing,  sir — thank'ee  all  the  same.' 

158 


» 


JOHJSr    HALIFAX.  159 

"  If  he  should  grow  worse,  let  me  go  for  Doctor  Brown  ? 
I  shall  be  at  home  all  day." 

"  I'll  tell  Miss  March  of  your  kindness,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Tod,  as  with  a  troubled  countenance  she  disappeared. 

"Were  you  not  going  to  JS'orton  Bury  to-thiy,  John  ? '' 

"  I  was — but — as  it  is  a  matter  of  no  moment,  I  have 
changed  my  mind.  You  have  been  left  so  much  alone 
lately.  Nay — I'll  not  disguise  the  truth ;  I  had  another 
reason." 

"May  I  know  it?" 

"  Of  course  you  may.  It  is  about  our  fellow-lodgers. 
Doctor  Brown — I  met  him  on  the  road  this  morning — told 
me  that  her  father  cannot  live  more  than  a  few  days — per- 
haps a  few  hours.     And  she  does  not  know  it." 

He  leaned  on  the  mantel-piece.  I  could  see  he  was  very 
much  affected. 

So  was  I. 

"  Her  relatives — surely  they  ought  to  be  sent  for  ? ''' 

"  She  has  none.  Doctor  Brown  said  she  once  told  him 
so  ;  none  nearer  than  the  Brithwoods  of  the  Mythe — and 
we  know  what  the  Brithwoods  are." 

A  young  gentleman  and  his  young  wife — proverbially 
the  gayest,  proudest,  most  light-hearted  of  all  our  county 
families. 

"Nay,  Phineas,  I  will  not  have  you  trouble  yourself. 
And  after  all,  they  are  mere  strangers — mere  strangers. 
Come,  sit  down  to  breakfast." 

But  he  could  not  eat.  He  could  not  talk  of  ordinary 
things.  Every  minute  he  fell  into  abstractions.  At  length 
he  said,  suddenly — 

"■  Phineas,  I  do  think  it  is  wicked,  downright  wicked,  for 
a  doctor  to  be  afraid  of  telling  a  patient  he  is  going  to  die 
— more  wicked,  perhaps,  to  keep  the  friends  in  ignorance, 
nntil  the  last  stunning  blow  falls.  She  ought  to  be  told  ; 
she  must  be  told  :  she  may  have  many  things  to  say  to  her 
poor  father.  And  God  help  her  !  for  such  a  stroke  she 
ought  to  be  a  little  prepared.     It  might  kill  her  else  ! " 

He  rose  up  and  walked  about  the  room.  The  seal  once 
taken  from  his  reserve,  he  expressed  himself  to  me  freely. 


160  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

as  he  had  used  to  do — perhaps  because  at  this  time  his  feel- 
ings required  no  disguise.  The  dreams  which  might  have 
peopled  that  beautiful  sunset  wood^  necessarily  faded  in  an 
atmosphere  like  this — filled  with  the  solemn  gloom  of  im- 
pending death. 

At  last  he  paused  in  his  hurried  walk,  quieted,  perhaps, 
by  what  he  might  have  read  in  my  ever-following  eyes. 

'- 1  know  you  are  as  grieved  as  I  am,  Phineas.  What 
can  we  do  ?  Let  us  forget  that  they  are  strangers,  and  act 
as  one  Christian  ought  to  another.  Do  ]/ou  not  think  she 
ought  to  be  told  ?  " 

"  Most  decidedly.     They  might  get  further  advice." 

"  That  would  be  vain.  Dr.  Brown  says  it  is  a  hojieless 
case,  has  been  so  for  long  ;  but  he  would  not  believe  it, 
nor  have  his  daughter  told.  He  clings  to  life  desperately. 
How  horrible  for  her  ! "' 

"  You  think  most  of  her." 

"  I  do,"  said  he,  firmly.  "  He  is  reaping  what  he  sowed, 
poor  man  I  God  knows,  I  pity  him.  But  she  is  as  good 
as  an  angel  of  heaven." 

It  was  evident,  that,  somehow  or  other.  John  had  learnt 
a  great  deal  about  the  father  and  daughter.  However,  now 
was  not  the  time  to  question  him.  For  at  this  moment, 
through  the  opened  doors,  we  heard  faint  moans  that 
pierced  the  whole  house,  and  too  surely  came  from  the  sick 
— possibly,  the  dying  man.  Mrs.  Tod,  who  had  been  see- 
ing Dr.  Brown  to  his  horse,  now  entered  our  parlor — pale, 
with  swollen  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Halifax  !  "  and  the  kind  soul  burst  out  into 
crying  afresh.  John  made  her  sit  down,  and  gave  her  a 
glass  of  wine. 

"  I've  been  with  them  since  four  this  morning,  and  it 
makes  me  weakly  like,"  said  she.  "  That  poor  Mr.  March 
— I  didn't  like  him  very  much  alive,  but  I  do  feel  so  sorry 
now  he's  a-dying." 

Then  he  ivas  dying. 

"  Does  his  daughter  know  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No — no — I  dare  not  tell  her,     Nobody  dare/' 

"  Does  she  not  guess  it  ?  " 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  161 


ee 


Not  a  bit.  Poor  young  body  !  she's  never  seen  any- 
body so.  She  fancies  him  no  worse  than  he  has  been,  and 
has  got  over  it.  She  woulchi't  think  else.  She  be  a  good 
daughter  to  him — that  she  be  !  " 

We  all  sat  silent ;  and  then  John  said,  in  a  low  voice — 
"  Mrs.  Tod,  she  ought  to  be  told — and  you  would  be  the 
best  person  to  tell  her." 

But  the  soft-hearted  landlady  recoiled  from  the  task. 
"  If  Tod  were  at  home  now — he  that  is  so  full  o'  wisdom 
learnt  in  '  the  kirk  ' — " 

"I  think,"  said  John,  hastily  interrupting,  "that  a 
woman  would  be  the  best.  But  if  you  object,  and  as  Doc- 
tor Brown  will  not  be  here  till  to-morrow — and  as  there  is 
no  one  else  to  perform  such  a  trying  duty — it  seems — that 
is.  I  believe  " — hero  his  rather  formal  speech  failed.  He 
ended  it  abruptly — "  If  you  like,  I  will  tell  her  myself." 

Mrs.  Tod  overwhelmed  him  with  thankfulness. 

"  How  shall  I  meet  her,  then  ?  If  it  were  done  by 
chance,  it  would  be  best." 

"■  I'll  manage  it  somehow.  The  house  is  very  quiet :  I've 
sent  all  the  children  away,  except  the  baby.  The  baby  '11 
comfort  her,  poor  dear  !  afterwards."  And,  again  drying 
her  honest  eyes,  Mrs.  Tod  ran  out  of  the  room. 

We  could  do  notliing  at  all  that  morning.  The  impend- 
ing sorrow  might  have  been  our  own,  instead  of  that  of 
people  who  three  weeks  ago  were  perfect  strangers.  We 
sat  and  talked — less,  perhaps,  of  them  individually,  than  of 
the  dark  Angel,  whom  face  to  face  I  at  least  had  never  yet 
known — who  even  now  stood  at  the  door  of  our  little  liabi- 
tation,  mkaihg  its  various  inmates  feel  as  one  family,  in  the 
presence  of  the  great  leveller  of  all  things — Death. 

Hour  by  hour  of  that  long  day,  the  rain  fell  down — pour- 
ing— pouring — shutting  us  up,  as  it  were,  from  the  world 
without,  and  obliterating  every  thought,  save  of  what  was 
happening  under  our  one  roof — that  awful  change  Avhich 
was  taking  place  in  the  upper  room,  in  the  other  half  of  the 
house,  whence  the  moans  descended,  and  whence  Mrs.  Tod 
came  out  from  time  to  time,  hurrying  mournfully  to  inform 
"  Mr.  Halifax  "  how  thins-s  went  on. 


'to" 
II 


162  JOHX    HALIFAX. 

It  was  nearly  dusk  before  she  told  us  Mr.  March  was 
asleep,  that  his  daughter  had  at  last  been  persuaded  to 
come  down  stairs,  and  was  standing  drinking  "a  cup  o' 
tea  "  by  the  kitchen  fire. 

"You  must  go  now,  sir;  she'll  not  stop  five  minutes. 
Please  go." 

"I  will,''  he  answered  ;  but  lie  turned  frightfully  pale. 
"  Phineas — don't  let  her  see  us  both.  Stay  without 
the  door.  '  If  there  were  anybody  to  tell  her  this  but 
me!" 

"Do  you  hesitate?" 

"No— no." 

And  he  went  out.  I  did  not  follow  him,  but  I  heard 
afterwards,  both  from  himself  and  Mrs.  Tod,  what  tran- 
spired. 

She  was  standing  so  absorbed  that  she  did  not  notice  his 
entrance.  She  looked  years  older  and  sadder  than  the 
young  girl  who  had  stood  l»y  the  stream-side  less  than  a 
week  ago.  When  she  turned  and  spoke  to  John,  it  was 
with  a  manner  also  changed.  No  hesitation,  no  shyness  ; 
trouble  had  put  aside  both. 

"  Thank  you,  .my  father  is  indeed  seriously  ill.  I  am  in 
great  trouble,  you  see,  though  Mrs.  Todd  is  very,  very  kind. 
Don't  cry  so,  good  Mrs.  Tod  ;  I  can't  cry,  I  dare  not.  If  I 
once  began,  I  should  never  stop,  and  then  how  could  I  help 
my  poor  father  ?     There  now,  there  I  " 

She  laid  her  hand,  with  its  soft,  fluttering  motions,  on 
the  good  woman's  shoulder,  and  looked  up  at  John.  He 
said  afterwards,  that  those  dry  tearless  eyes  smote  him  to 
the  heart. 

"  Why  does  she  sob  so,  Mr.  Halifax  ?  Papa  will  be  better 
to-morrow,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  answered,  dwelling  on  the  Avord  ;  "  we 
should  always  hope,  to  the  very  last." 

"  The  last  ?  "  with  a  quick  startled  glance. 

"And  then  we  can  only  trust." 

Something  more  than  the  mere  words  struck  her.  She 
examined  him  closely  for  a  minute. 

"  You  mean — yes — I  understand  what  you  mean.     But 


JO'hTST   HALIFAX.  163 

you  are  mistaken.  The  doctor  would  have  told  me — if — 
if — "  she  shi\ ered,  and  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

"  Dr.  Brown  was  afraid — we  were  all  afraid,"  broke  in 
Mrs.  Tod,  sobbing.     "Only  Mr.  Halifax,  he  said — *' 

Miss  March  turned  abruptly  to  ,Iolin.  That  woful  gaze 
of  hers  could  be  answered  by  no  words.  I  believe  he  took 
her  hand,  but  I  cannot  tell.  One  thing  I  can  tell,  for  she 
said  it  to  me  herself  afterwards,  tliat  he  seemed  to  look 
down  upon  her  like  a  strong,  pitiful,  comforting  angel ;  a 
messenger  sent  by  God, 

Then  she  broke  away,  aiul  iicw  u])-stairs.  John  came  in 
again  to  me,  and  sat  down,  lie  did  not  speak  for  many 
minutes. 

After  an  interval — I  know  not  how  lo)ig — we  heard  ^\rs. 
Tod  calling  loudly  for  "  Mr.  Halifax."  We  both  ran  through 
the  empty  kitchen  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  that  led  to  Mr. 
March's  room. 

Mr.  March's  room  !  Alas,  he  owned  nothing  now  on 
this  fleeting,  perishable  earth  of  ours.  He  had  gone  from 
it :  the  spirit  stealing  quietly  away  in  sleep.  He  belonged 
now  to  the  world  everlasting. 

Peace  be  to  him  !  Vvhatever  his  life  had  been,  he  was  her 
father. 

Mrs.  Tod  sat  half  way  down  the  staircase,  holding  Ursula 
March  across  her  knees.  The  poor  creature  was  insensible, 
or  nearly  so.  She — we  learnt — had  been  composed  under 
the  terrible  discovery  nuide  when  she  returned  to  his  room  ; 
and  when  all  restorative  means  failed,  the  fact  of  death 
1)ecame  certain,  she  had  herself  closed  her  father's  eyes,  and 
kissed  him,  then  tried  to  walk  from  the  room — but  at  the 
third  step  she  dropped  quietly  down. 

There  she  lay  ;  physical  weakness  conquering  the  strong 
heart :  she  lay,  overcome  at  last.  There  was  no  more  to 
bear.  Had  there  been,  I  think  she  would  have  been  able 
to  have  borne  it  still. 

John  took  her  in  his  arms  ;  I  know  not  if  he  took  her, 
or  Mrs.  Tod  gave  her  to  him — but  there  she  was.  He  car- 
ried her  across  the  kitchen  into  our  own  little  parlor,  and 
laid  her  down  on  my  sofa. 


164  JOHK   HALIFAX. 

"  Shut  the  door,  Phineas.  Mrs.  Tod^  keep  everybody 
out.     She  is  waking  now." 

She  did,  indeed,  open  her  eyes,  with  a  long  sigh,  but 
closed  them  again.  Then,  with  an  effort,  she  sat  upright, 
and  looked  at  us  all  around. 

"Oh,  my  dear  !  my  dear  \"  moaned  Mrs.  Tod,  clasping 
her,  and  sobbing  over  her  like  a  child.     "■  Cry,  do  cry  ! " 

"  I  canH,"  she  said,  and  lay  down  again. 

We  stood  awed,  watching  that  poor,  pale  face,  on  every 
line  of  which  was  written  stunned,  motionless,  impassive 
grief.  For  John — two  minutes  of  such  a  gaze  as  his  might 
in  a  man's  heart  do  the  work  of  years. 

"She  must  be  roused,"  he  said  at  last.  "She  must 
cry.  Mrs.  Tod,  take  her  up-stairs.  Let  her  look  at  her 
father." 

The  word  effected  what  he  desired  ;  what  almost  her 
life  demanded.  She  clung  round  Mrs.  Tod's  neck  in  tor- 
rents of  weeping. 

"  Now,  Phineas,  let  us  go  away." 

And  he  went,  walking  almost  like  one  blindfold,  straight 
out  of  the  house,  I  following  him. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  I  AM  quite  certain,  Mrs.  Tod,  tliat  it  would  be  much 
better  for  her ;  and,  if  she  consents,  it  shall  be  so,"  said 
John,  decisively. 

We  three  were  consulting,  the  morning  after  the  death, 
on  a  plan  which  he  and  I  had  already  settled  between  our- 
selves, namely,  that  we  should  leave  our  })ortion  of  the  cot- 
tage entirely  at  Miss  March's  disposal,  while  we  inhabited 
hers — save  that  locked  and  silent  chamber  wherein  there 
was  no  complaining,  no  suffering  now. 

Either  John's  decision,  or  Mrs.  Tod's  reasoning,  was 
successful  ;  we  received  a  message  to  the  effect,  that  Miss 
March  would  not  refuse  our  "  kindness."  So  we  vacated  ; 
and  all  that  long  Sunday  we  sat  in  the  parlor  lately  our 
neighbor's,  heard  the  rain  come  down,  and  the  church-bells 
ring  ;  the  wind  blowing  autumn  gales,  and  shaking  all  the 
windows,  even  that  of  the  room  overhead.  It  sounded 
awful  there.  We  were  very  glad  the  poor  young  orphan 
was  away. 

On  the  Monday  morning  we  heard  going  up-stairs  the 
heavy  footsteps  that  every  one  at  some  time  or  other  has 
shuddered  at  ;  then  the  hammering.  Mrs.  Tod  came  in, 
and  told  us  that  no  one — not  even  his  daughter — could  be 
allowed  to  look  at  what  had  been  "  poor  Mr.  March,"  any 
more.     All  with  him  was  ended. 

"  The  funeral  is  to  be  soon.  I  Avonder  Avhat  she  will  do 
then,  poor  thing  !  " 

John  made  me  no  answer. 

"  Is  she  left  well  provided  for,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  It  is  impossible  to  say." 

His  answers  were  terse  and  brief  enough,  but  I  could  not 
help  talking  about  the  poor  young  creature,  and  wonder 

165 


166  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

ing  if  she  had  any  relative  or  friend  to  come  to  her  in  this 
sad  time. 

"She  said — do  you  remember,  when  she  was  crying — 
that  she  had  not  a  friend  in  the  wide  world  ?  " 

And  this  fact,  which  he  expressed  with  a  sort  of  triumph, 
seemed  to  afford  the  greatest  possible  comfort  to  John. 

But  all  our  sjoeculations  were  set  at  rest  by  a  request 
brought  this  moment  by  Mrs.  Tod — that  Mr.  Halifax  would 
go  with  her  to  speak  to  Miss  March. 

"  I  !  only  I  ?"  said  John,  starting. 

"  Only  you,  sir.  She  wants  somebody  to  speak  to  about 
the  funeral — and  I  said,  '  There  be  Mr.  Halifax,  Miss  ^larcli, 
the  kindest  gentleman  ;  '  and  she  said,  '  if  it  wouldn't 
trouble  him  to  come — ' '"' 

"Tell  her  Fm  coming." 

When,  after  some  time,  he  returned,  he  was  very  seri- 
ous. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Phineas,  and  you  shall  hear  ;  I  feel 
confused,  rather.  It  is  so  strange,  but  trusting  me  thus. 
I  Avish  I  could  help  her  more." 

Then  he  told  me  all  that  had  passed — how  he  and  Mrs. 
Tod  had  conjointly  arranged  the  hasty  funeral — how  brave 
and  composed  she  had  been — that  poor  child,  all  alone. 

"  Has  she  indeed  no  one  to  help  her  ?  "' 

"  No  one.  She  might  send  for  Mr.  Brithwood,  but  he 
was  not  friendly  with  her  father  ;  she  said,  she  had  rather 
ask  this  '  kindness '  of  me,  because  her  father  had  liked 
me,  and  thought  I  resembled  their  Walter,  who  died." 

"  Poor  Mr.  March  ! — perhaps  he  is  with  Walter  now. 
But,  John,  can  you  do  all  that  is  necessary  for  her  ?  You 
are  very  young." 

"She  does  not  seem  to  feel  that.  She  treats  me  as  if  I 
were  a  man  of  forty.     Do  I  look  so  old  and  grave,  Phineas  ?  " 

"  Sometimes.     And  about  the  funeral  ?  " 

"It  will  be  very  simple.  She  is  determined  to  go  her- 
self. She  wishes  to  have  no  one  besides  Mrs.  Tud,  you,  and 
me." 

"  Where  is  he  to  be  buried  ?  " 

"  In  the  little  churchyard  close  by,  which  you  and  I  have 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  167 

looked  at  many  ti  time.     Ah,  Phiiieas,  we  did  uot  thiuk  how 
soon  we  should  be  laying  our  dead  there." 

"Not  our  dead,  thank  God  !" 

But  the  next  minute  I  understood.  "Our  dead" — the 
involuntary  admission  of  that  sole  feeling,  which  makes 
one,  erewhile  a  stranger,  say  to,  or  think  of  another — "  All 
thine  are  mine,  and  mine  are  tliine,  henceforward  and  for- 
ever." 

I  watched  John  as  he  stood  by  the  fire  ;  his  thouglitful 
brow  and  firm-set  lips  contradicting  tlie  youthfulness  of  his 
looks.  Few  as  were  his  years,  he  had  learnt  much  in  them. 
He  was  at  heart  a  mini,  ready  and  al)le  to  design  and  carry 
out  a  man's  work  in  the  world.  And  in  his  whole  aspect 
was  such  grave  purity.. such  honest  truth,  that  no  wonder, 
young  as  they  both  were,  and  little  as  she  knew  of  him, 
this  poor  orphan  should  not  have  feared  to  trust  him  en- 
tirely. And  there  is  nothing  that  Ijinds  heart  to  heart,  of 
lovers  or  friends,  so  quickly  and  so  safely,  as  to  trust  and 
be  trusted  iu  time  of  trouble. 

"  Did  she  tell  you  any  more,  John  ?  Anything  of  her 
circumstances  ?  " 

"^No.  But  from  something  Mrs.  Tod  let  fall,  I  fear — " 
and  he  vainly  tried  to  disguise  liis  extreme  satisfaction — 
"that  she  will  be  left  with  little  or  nothing." 

"  Poor  Miss  March  !  " 

"  Why  call  her  poor  ?  She  is  not  a  woman  to  be  pitied, 
but  to  be  honored.  You  would  have  thought  so,  had  you 
seen  her  this  morning.  So  gentle — so  wise — so  brave. 
Phineas," — and  I  could  see  his  lips  tremble — "  that  was 
the  kind  of  woman  Solomon  meant,  when  he  said,  '  Her 
price  is  above  rubies.'  " 

"  I  think  so  too.  I  doubt  not  that  when  she  marries, 
Ursula  March  will  be  a  '  crown  to  her  husband.'" 

My  words,  or  the  half  sigh  that  accompanied  them — ^I 
could  not  help  it — seemed  to  startle  John,  but  he  made  no 
remark.     Nor  did  we  recur  to  the  subject  again  that  day. 

Two  days  after  our  little  company  followed  the  coffin  out 
of  the  woodbine  porch,  where  we  had  last  said  good-bye  to 
poor  Mr.  March — across  the  few  yards  of  common,  to  the 


168  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

churchyard,  scarcely  larger  than  a  cottage  garden,  where, 
at  long  mtervals,  the  few  Enderley  dead  were  laid. 

A  small  procession — the  daughter  first,  supported  by 
good  Mrs.  Tod,  then  John  Halifax  and  I .  So  we  buried 
him— the  stranger,  who  at  this  time,  and  henceforth, 
seemed  even,  as  John  had  expressed  it,  "  our  dead,"  our 
own. 

We  followed  the  orphan  home.  She  had  walked  firmly, 
and  stood  by  the  grave-side  motionless,  her  hood  drawn 
over  her  face.  But  when  we  came  back  to  Rose  Cottage 
door,  and  she  gave  a  quick  startled  glance  up  at  the  famil- 
iar window,  we  saw  Mrs.  Tod  take  her,  unresisting,  into  her 
motherly  arms — then  Ave  knew  how  it  would  be. 

"  Come  away,  "  said  John  in  a  smothered  voice — and  we 
came  away. 

All  that  day  we  sat  in  our  parlor — Mr.  March's  parlor 
that  had  been — where,  through  the  no  longer  darkened 
casement,  the  unwonted  sun  poured  in  ;  we  tried  to  settle 
to  our  ordinary  ways,  and  feel  as  if  this  were  like  all  other 
days — our  old  sunshiny  days  at  Enderley.  But  it  would 
not  do.  Some  imperceptible  but  great  change  had  taken 
place.  It  seemed  a  year  since  that  Saturday  afternoon, 
when  we  were  drinking  tea  so  merrily  under  the  apple-tree 
in  the  field. 

We  heard  no  more  from  Miss  March  that  day.  The  next, 
Ave  received  a  message  of  thanks  for  our  '*  kindness."  She 
had  given  way  at  last,  Mrs.  Tod  said,  and  kept  her  chamber, 
not  seriously  ill,  but  in  spirit  thoroughly  broken  down. 
For  three  days  more,  when  I  went  to  meet  John  returning 
from  j^orton  Bury,  I  could  see  that  his  first  glance,  as  he 
rode  up  betAveen  the  chestnut  trees,  Avas  to  the  Avindow  of 
the  room  that  had  been  mine.  I  always  told  him,  without 
his  asking,  whatever  Mrs.  Tod  had  told  me  about  her  state  ; 
he  used  to  listen,  generally  in  silence,  and  then  speak  of 
something  else.  He  hardly  ever  mentioned  Miss  March's 
name. 

On  the  fourth  morning,  I  happened  to  ask  him  if  he  had 
told  my  father  what  had  occurred  here  ? 

"No." 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  169 

I  looked  surprised. 

"  Did  you  wish  me  to  tell  him  ?  I  will,  if  you  like, 
Phineas." 

"  Oh,  no.     He  takes  little  interest  in  strangers." 

(Soon  after,  as  he  lingered  about  the  parlor,  John  said, 

"  Probably  I  may  be  late  to-night.  After  business  hours, 
I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  your  father." 

He  stood  irresolutely  by  the  fire.  I  knew  by  his  counte- 
nance that  there  was  something  on  liis  mind. 

'^  David." 

''Ay,  lad." 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  first  what  you  want  to  say  to  my 
father?" 

"  I  can't  stay  now.  To-night,  perhaps.  But,  pshaw  ! 
what  is  there  to  be  told  ?     'Nothing.'" 

"  Anything  that  concerns  you,  can  never  be  to  me  quite 
'notlnng.'" 

"  I  know  that,"  he  said,  affectionately,  and  went  out  of 
the  room. 

When  he  came  in,  he  looked  much  more  cheerful — stood 
switching  his  riding-whip  after  the  old  habit,  and  called 
upon  me  to  admire  his  favorite  brown  mare. 

"  I  do  ;  and  her  master  likewise.  John,  when  you're  on 
horseback,  you  look  like  a  young  knight  of  the  middle 
ages.  Maybe,  some  of  the  old  Norman  blood  was  in  '  Guy 
Halifax,  gentleman.'" 

It  was  a  dangerous  allusion.  He  changed  color  so 
rapidly  and  violently,  that  I  thought  I  had  angered  him. 

"No — that  would  not  matter — cannot — cannot — never 
shall.  I  am  what  God  made  me,  and  what,  with  His  bless- 
ing, I  will  make  myself." 

He  said  no  more,  and  very  soon  afterward  he  rode 
away.  But  not  before,  as  every  day,  I  had  noticed  that 
wistful,  wandering  glance  up  at  the  darkened  window  of 
the  room,  where,  sad  and  alone,  save  for  kindly  Mrs.  Tod, 
the  young  orphan  lay. 

In  the  evening,  just  before  bed-time,  he  said  to  me,  with 
a  rather  sad  smile,  "  Phineas.  you  wanted  to  know  what  it 
was  that  I  wished  to  speak  about  to  your  father  ;  " 


170  JOHN    HALIFAX.    , 

"Ay,  do  tell  me." 

"It  is  hardly  worth  telling.  Only  to  ask  him  how  ha 
set  up  in  business  for  himself.  He  was,  I  believe,  little 
older  than  I  am  now.'' 

"Just  twenty-one." 

"And  I  shall  be  twenty-one  next  June." 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  setting  up  for  yourself  ?  " 

"A  likely  matter!"  and  he  laughed  rather  bitterly,  I 
thought — "  when  every  trade  requires  some  capital,  and 
the  only  trade  I  thoroughly  understand,  a  very  large  one. 
No,  no,  Phineas  ;  you'll  not  see  me  setting  up  a  rival  tan- 
yard  next  year.     My  capital  is  nil." 

"  Except  youth,  health,  courage,  honor,  honesty,  and  a 
few  other  such  trifles. " 

"  None  of  which  I  can  coin  into  money,  however.  And 
your  father  has  expressly  told  me,  that  Avithout  money  a 
tanner  can  do  nothing." 

"  Unless,  as  was  his  own  case,  he  was  taken  into  some 
partnership,  where  his  services  were  so  valuable  as  to  be 
received  instead  of  capital.  True,  my  father  earned  little 
at  first,  scarcely  more  than  you  earn  now  ;  but  he  managed 
to  live  respectably,  and  in  course  of  time  to  marry." 

I  avoided  looking  at  John  as  I  said  the  last  word.  He 
made  no  answer,  l)ut  in  a  little  time  he  came  and  leaned 
over  my  chair. 

"  Phineas,  you  are  a  wise  counsellor — •  a  brother  born 
for  adversity.'  I  have  been  vexing  myself  a  good  deal 
about  my  future,  but  now  I  will  take  heart.  Perhaps, 
some  day,  neither  vou  nor  any  one  else  will  be  ashamed  of 
me." 

"No  one  could,  even  now,  seeing  you  as  you  really  are." 

"  As  John  Halifax,  not  as  the  tanners  'prentice  boy  ? 
Oh  !  lad — there  the  goad  sticks.  Here,  I  forget  everything 
unpleasant ;  I  am  my  own  free  natural  self  ;  but  the  minute 
I  get  back  to  Norton  Bury — however,  it  is  a  wrong,  a  wicked 
feeling,  and  must  be  kept  down.  Let  us  talk  of  something 
else." 

"  Of  Miss  March  ?    She  has  been  greatly  better  all  day  ?" 

"  She  ?     No,    not   her   to-night ! "   he   said,    hurriedly. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  171 


"  Pah  !     I  could  almost  fancy  tlie  odor  of  tlio^o  hides  on 
my  hands  still.     Give  me  a  candle." 

He  went  up-stairs  and  only  came  down  a  few  minutes 
hefore  bed-time. 

Next  morning  was  Sunday.  After  the  bells  had  done 
ringing,  we  saw  a  black-veiled  figure  pass  our  window. 
Poor  girl ! — going  to  church  alone.  We  followed — taking 
care  that  she  should  not  see  us^,  either  during  service,  or 
afterwards.  We  did  not  see  anything  more  of  her  that 
day. 

On  Monday,  a  message  came,  saying  that  Miss  March 
would  be  glad  to  speak  with  us  both.     Of  course,  we  went. 

She  was  sitting,  quite  alone,  in  our  old  parlor,  very  grave 
and  pale,  but  perfectly  composed.     A  little  more  womanly 
looking  in  the  dignity  of  her  great  grief,  which,  girl  as  she 
was,  and  young  men  as  we  were,  seemed  to  be  to  her  a  shield 
transcending  all  worldly  "'  proprieties." 

As  she  rose,  and  we  shook  hands,  in  a  silence  only  lu'oken 
by  the  rustle  of  her  black  dress,  not  one  of  us  thought — 
surely  the  most  evil-minded  gossip  could  not  have  dared  to 
think — not  fhe  thing.  She  seemed  to  have  fought  through 
the  worst  of  her  trouble,  and  to  have  put  it  back  into  those 
deep  quiet  chambers  Avhere  all  griefs  go  :  never  forgotten, 
never  removed,  but  sealed  np  in  silence,  as  it  should  be. 
Perhaps,  too — for  let  us  not  exact  more  from  Nature  than 
Nature  grants — the  wide  difference  in  character,  tempera- 
ment, and  sympathies  between  Miss  March  and  her  father, 
unconsciously  made  his  loss  less  a  heart-loss,  total  and  irre- 
mediable, than  one  of  mere  habit  and  instinctive  feeling, 
which,  the  first  shock  over,  would  insensibly  heal.  Besides, 
she  was  young — young  in  life,  in  hope,  in  body  and  soul  ; 
and  youth,  though  it  grieves  passionately,  cannot  for  ever 
grieve. 

I  saw,  and  rejoiced  to  see,  that  Miss  March  was  in  some 
degree  herself  again  :  at  least  so  much  of  her  old  self  as 
was  right,  natural,  and  good  for  her  to  be. 

She  and  John  conversed  a  good  deal.  Her  manner  to  him 
was  easy  and  natural,  as  to  a  friend  who  deserved  and  pos- 
sessed  her   warm    gratitude  :    his  was   most   constrained. 


172  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Gradually,  however,  this  wore  away  ;  there  was  something 
in  her  which,  piercing  all  disguises,  went  at  once  to  the 
heart  of  things.  She  seemed  to  hold  in  her  hand  the 
touchstone  of  truth. 

He  asked — no,  I  believe  /  asked  her,  how  long  she  in- 
tended staying  at  Enderley  ? 

"I  can  hardly  tell.  Once  I  understood  that  my  cousin, 
Eichard  Brithwood,  was  left  my  guardian.  This  my  fa — 
this  was  to  have  been  altered,  I  believe.  I  wish  it  had 
been.     You  know  Norton  Bury,  Mr.  Halifax  '^" 

"I  live  there." 

"  Indeed  ! " — with  some  surprise.  "  Then  you  are  prob- 
ably acquainted  with  my  cousin  and  his  wife  ?  " 

''No  ;  but  I  have  seen  them." 

John  gave  these  answers  without  lifting  his  eyes. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  candidly,  for  I  know  nothiiig  of  her, 
and  it  is  rather  important  that  I  should  learn — what  sort 
of  jierson  is  Lady  Caroline  ?  " 

This  frank  question,  put  directly,  and  guarded  by  the 
battery  of  those  innocent,  girlish  eyes,  was  a  very  hard 
question  to  be  answered  ;  for  Norton  Bury  had  said  many 
ill-natured  things  of  our  young  'squire's  wife,  whom  he 
married  at  Naples,  from  the  house  of  the  well-known  Lady 
Hamilton. 

"  She  was,  you  are  aware,  Lady  Caroline  Ravenel,  the 
Earl  of  Luxniore's  daughter." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  that  does  not  signify.  I  know  nothing 
of  Lord  Luxmore — I  want  to  know  what  she  is  herself." 

John  hesitated,  then  answered,  as  he  could  with  truth, 
"  She  is  said  to  be  very  charitable  to  the  poor,  pleasant  and 
kind-hearted.  But  if  I  may  venture  to  hint  as  much,  not 
exactly  the  friend  whom  I  think  Miss  March  would  choose, 
or  to  whom  she  would  like  to  be  indebted  for  anything  but 
courtesy." 

"  That  was  not  my  meaning.  I  need  not  be  indebted  to 
any  one.  Only,  if  she  were  a  good  woman.  Lady  Caroline 
would  have  been  a  great  comfort  and  a  useful  adviser  to 
one  who  is  scarcely  eighteen,  and,  I  believe,  an  heiress." 

"  An  heiress  ! "  The  color  flashed  in  a  torrent  over  John's 


JOHX    HALIFAX.  173 

whole  face,  tlieii  left  liiiu  pale.  *'  I — pardon  me — I  thought 
it  was  otherwise.     Allow  me  to — to  express  my  pleasure — " 

"  It  does  not  add  to  mine,"  said  she,  half-sighing.  "Jane 
Cardigan  always  told  me  riches  brought  many  cares.  Poor 
Jane  !  I  wish  I  could  go  back  to  her — but  that  is  impos- 
sible ! " 

A  silence  here  intervened,  which  it  was  necessary  some 
one  should  break. 

"  So  much  good  can  be  done  Avith  a  large  fortune,"  I 
said. 

•'  Yes.  I  know  not  if  mine  is  very  large  ;  indeed  I  never 
understood  money  matters,  but  have  merely  believed  what 
— what  I  wastold.  However,  be  my  fortune  much  or  little, 
I  will  try  to  use  it  well." 

''  I  am  sure  you  will." 

John  said  nothing  ;  but  his  eyes,  sad  indeed,  yet  lit  with 
a  proud  tenderness,  rested  upon  her  as  she  spoke.  Soon 
after,  he  rose  u])  to  take  leave. 

"  Do  not  go  yet.  I  want  to  ask  about  Norton  Bury,  I 
had  no  idea  you  lived  there.     And  Mr.  Fletcher  too  ?  " 

I  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

^'  In  what  part  of  the  town  ?  " 

"  On  the  Coltham  Road,  near  the  Abbe}^" 

"  Ah,  those  Abbey  chimes  ! — how  I  used  to  listen  to 
them  night  after  night,  when  the  })ain  kept  me  awake  ! " 

"  What  pain  ?  "  asked  John  suddeidy,  alive  to  any  suffer- 
ing of  hers. 

Miss  March  smiled  almost  like  her  old  smile.  "  Oh  !  I 
had  nearly  forgotten  it,  though  it  was  very  bad  at  the  time  : 
only  that  I  cut  my  wrist  rather  dangerously  with  a  bread- 
knife,  in  a  struggle  with  my  nurse." 

"  When  was  that  ?"  eagerly  inquired  John. 

For  me,  I  said  nothing.  Already  I  guessed  all.  Alas  ! 
the  tide  of  fate  was  running  strong  against  my  poor  David. 
What  could  I  do  but  stand  aside  and  watch  ? 

"When  was  it  ?  Let  me  see — five,  six  years  ago.  But, 
indeed,  'tis  nothing." 

"  Not  exactly  '  nothing.'     Do  tell  me  !  " 

And  John  stood,  listening  for  her  words,  counting  them 


174  JOHX    HALIFAX. 

even,  as  one  would  count,  drop  by  drop,  a  vial  of  joy  which 
is  nearly  empty,  yet  Time's  remorseless  hand  still  kept  on, 
pouring,  pouring. 

"  Weil,  if  you  must  know  it,  it  was  oue  of  my  naughti-      | 
nesses — I  was  very  nauglity  as  a  child.     They  would  not 
let  me  have  a  piece  of  bread  that  I  wanted  to  give  away  to 
a  poor  lad."     '  ! 

"  Who  stood  opposite — under  an  alley — in  tlie  rain  ? — 
was  it  not  ?  " 

"  How  could  you  know  ?     But  he  looked  so  hungry.     I 
was  so  sorry  for  him."  , 

'M¥ere  you  ?" — in  a  tone  almost  inaudible. 

"I  have  often  thought  of  him,  since,  when  I  chanced  to 
look  at  this  mark."  i 

"  Let  me  look  at  it  ?— may  I  ?  "  j 

Taking  her  hand,  he  softly  put  back  the  sleeve,  discover-      j 
ing,   just  above  the  wrist,   a  deep,  discolored  seam.      He      I 
gazed  at  it,  his  features  all  quivering,  then,  without  a  word 
either  of  adieu  or  apology,  he  quitted  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

I  "WAS  left  with  Miss  March  alone.  She  sat  looking  at 
the  door  where  John  had  disappeared,  in  extreme  surprise, 
not  unraingled  with  a  certain  embarrassment. 

"  What  does  lie  mean,  Mr,  Fletcher  ?  Can  I  have  of- 
fended him  in  any  way  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  no." 

"  Why  did  he  go  away  ?  " 

But  that  question,  simple  as  it  was  in  itself,  and  most 
simply  put,  involved  so  much,  that  I  felt  T  had  no  right 
to  answer  it ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  I  had  no  possible 
right  to  use  any  of  those  disguises  or  prevarications  which 
are  foolish  and  perilous,  and  vei-y  frequently  wrong.  Nor, 
even  had  I  desired,  was  Miss  March  the  woman  to  which 
one  dared  offer  the  like  ;  therefore  I  said  to  her  plainly — 

"  I  know  the  reason.  I  would  tell  you.  but  I  think  John 
would  prefer  telling  you  himself." 

*'  As  he  pleases,"  returned  Miss  March,  a  slight  reserve 
tempering  her  frank  manner  ;  but  it  soon  vanished,  and 
she  began  talking  to  me  in  her  usual  friendly  way,  asking 
me  many  questions  about  the  Brithwoods  and  about  Nor- 
ton Bury.  I  answered  them  freely — my  only  reservation 
being,  that  I  took  care  not  to  give  any  information  con- 
cerning ourselves.  Soon  afterwards,  as  John  did  not  re- 
turn. I  took  leave  of  her,  and  went  to  our  parlor. 

He  was  not  there.  He  had  left  word  with  little  Jack, 
who  had  met  him  on  the  common,  that  he  was  gone  a  long 
walk,  and  should  not  return  till  dinner-time.  Dinner- 
time came,  but  I  had  to  dine  alone.  It  was  the  first  time 
I  ever  knew  him  to  break  even  such  a  trivial  promise.  My 
heart  misgave  me — I  spent  a  miserable  day.  I  was  afraid 
to  go  in  search  of  him.  lest  he  should  return  to  a  dreary, 

175 


176  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

empty  parlor.     Better,  when  he  did  come  in,  that  he  should 
find  a  cheerful  hearth  and — me. 

Me,  his  friend  and  brother,  who  had  loved  him  these  six 
years,  better  than  anything  else  in  the  whole  world.  Yet 
what  could  I  do  now  ?  Fate  had  taken  the  sceptre  out  of 
my  hands — I  was  utterly  powerless  ;  I  could  neither  give 
him  comfort,  nor  save  him  pain,  any  more. 

What  I  felt  then,  in  those  long,  still  hours,  many  a  one 
has  felt  likewise  ;  many  a  parent  over  a  child,  many  a  sister 
over  a  brother,  many  a  friend  over  a  friend.  A  feeling  nat- 
ural and  universal.  Let  those  who  suffer  take  it  patiently, 
as  the  common  lot  ;  let  those  who  win  hold  the  former 
ties  in  tenderness  and  reverence,  nor  dare  to  flaunt  the  new 
bond  cruelly  in  face  of  the  old. 

Having  said  this,  which,  being  the  truth,  it  struck  me  as 
right  to  say,  I  will  no  more  allude  to  the  subject. 

In  the  afternoon  there  occurred  an  incident.  A  coach- 
and-four,  resplendent  in  liveries,  stopped  at  the  door  :  I 
knew  it  well,  and  so  did  all  Norton  Bury.  It  vv^as  empty  ; 
but  Lady  Caroline's  own  maid — so  I  heard  afterwards — sat 
in  the  rumble,  and  Lady  Caroline's  own  black-eyed  Neapo- 
litan page  leaped  down,  bearing  a  large  letter,  which  I  con- 
cluded was  for  Miss  March.  I  was  glad  that  John  was  not 
at  home  ;  glad  that  the  coach,  with  all  its  fine  paraphernalia, 
was  away,  empty  as  it  had  arrived,  before  John  came  in. 

He  did  not  come  until  it  was  nearly  dusk.  I  was  at  the 
window,  looking  at  my  four  poplar-trees,  as  they  pointed 
skywards  like  long  fingers  stretching  up  out  of  the  gloom, 
when  I  saw  him  crossing  the  common.  At  first  I  was  going 
to  meet  him  at  the  gate,  but  on  second  thoughts  I  remained 
within,  and  only  stirred  up  the  fire,  which  could  be  seen 
shining  ever  so  far. 

"  What  a  bright  blaze  ! — Nay,  you  have  not  waited  din- 
ner, I  hope  ? — Tea — yes,  that's  far  better  ;  I  have  had  such 
a  long  walk,  and  am  so  tired." 

The  words  were  cheerful,  so  was  the  tone.  Too  cheerful 
— oh,  by  far  !  The  sort  of  cheerfulness  that  strikes  to  a 
friend's  heart,  like  the  piping  of  soldiers  as  they  go  away 
back  from  a  newly-filled  grave. 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  177 

*'  Where  liave  you  been,  John  ?  " 

"  All  over  Nunnely  Hill.  I  must  take  you  there — such 
expansive  views.  As  Mrs.  Tod  informed  me,  quoting  some 
local  ballad,  wliich  she  said  was  written  by  an  uncle  of  hers  : 

'  There  you  may  spy 
Twenty-three  churches  with  the  glass  aud  the  eye.' 

Eemarkable  fact,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Thus  lie  kept  on  talking  all  tea-time,  incessantly,  rapidly 
talking.     It  was  enough  to  nuike  one  weej). 

After  tea,  I  insisted  on  his  taking  my  arm-chair  ;  say- 
ing, that  after  such  a  walk,  in  that  raw  day,  he  must  be 
very  cold. 

"  Not  the  least— quite  the  contrary — feel  my  hand."  It 
was  burning.      "  But  I  am  tired — thoroughly  tired." 

He  leaned  back  and  shut  his  eyes.  Oh,  the  utter  weari- 
ness of  body  and  soul   that  was  written  on  his  face  ! 

"  Why  did  you  go  out  alone  ?  John,  you  know  that  you 
have  always  me." 

He  looked  up,  smiling.  But  the  momentary  brightness 
passed.     Alas  !     I  was  not  enough  to  make  him  happy  now. 

We  sat  silent.  I  knew  he  would  sj)eak  to  me,  in  time ; 
but  the  gates  of  his  heart  Avere  close  locked.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  dared  not  open  them,  lest  the  flood  should  burst  forth 
and  overwhelm  us. 

At  nine  o'clock,  Mrs.  Tod  came  in  with  supper.  She 
had  ahvays  something  or  other  to  say,  epecially  since  the 
late  events  had  drawn  the  whole  household  of  Eose  Cottage 
so  closely  together  ;  now,  she  was  brim-full  of  news. 

She  had  been  all  that  evening  packing  up  for  poor,  dear 
Miss  March  ;  though  why  she  should  call  her  "  poor," 
truly,  she  didn't  know.  Who  would  have  thought  Mr, 
March  had  such  grand  relations  ?  Had  we  seen  Lady  Caro- 
line Brithwood's  coach  come  that  day  ?  Such  a  beautiful 
coach  it  Avas  I — sent  on  purpose  for  Miss  March — only  she 
wouldn't  go.  "  But  now  she  has  made  up  her  mind,  poor 
dear.     She  is  leaving  to-morrow." 

When  John  heard  this,  he  Avas  helping  Mrs.  Tod,  as 
usual,   to  fasten  the  heavy  shutters.     He  stood,  with  his 

12 


178  JOHN"    HALIFAX. 

hand  on  tlie  bolt,  motionless,  till  the  good  woman  was  gone. 
Then  he  staggered  to  the  mantel-piece,  and  leaned  on  it 
with  both  his  elbows,  his  hands  covering  his  face. 

But  there  was  no  disguise  now — no  attempt  to  make  it. 
A  young  man's  first  love — not  first  fancy,  but  first  love — in 
all  its  passion,  desperation,  and  pain — had  come  to  him, 
as  it  comes  to  all.  I  saw  him  writhing  under  it — saw,  and 
could  not  help  him.  The  next  few  silent  minutes  were 
very  bitter  to  us  both. 

Then  I  said,  gently,  "David  V 

'^Well?" 

"  I  thought  things  were  so." 

''Yes.'"'' 

"  Suppose  you  were  to  talk  to  me  a  little — it  might  do 
you  good." 

"  Another  time.  Let  me  go  out — out  into  the  air  ;  I'm 
choking." 

Snatching  up  his  hat,  he  rushed  from  me.  I  did  not 
dare  to  follow. 

After  waiting  some  time,  and  listening  till  all  was  quiet 
in  the  house,  I  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer,  and 
went  out. 

I  thought  I  should  find  him  on  the  Flat — probably  in  his 
favorite  walk,  his  "  terrace  "  as  he  called  it,  where  he  had 
first  seen,  and  must  have  seen  many  a  day  after,  that  girlish 
figure  tripping  lightly  along  through  the  morning  sunshine 
and  morning  dew.  I  had  a  sort  of  instinct  that  he  would 
be  there  now  ;  so  1  climbed  up  the  shortest  way,  often  los- 
ing my  footing  ;  for  it  was  a  ]jitch-dark  night,  and  the  com- 
mon looked  as  wide,  and  black,  and  still,  as  a  midnight 
sea. 

John  was  not  there  ;  indeed,  if  he  had  been,  I  could 
scarcely  have  seen  him  ;  I  could  see  nothing  but  the  void 
expanse  of  the  Flat,  or.  looking  down,  the  broad  river  of 
mist  that  rolled  through  the  valley,  on  the  other  side  of 
which  tAvinkled  a  few  cottage  liglits,  like  unearthly  beacons 
from  the  farthest  shore  of  an  impassable  flood. 

Suddenly  I  remembered  hearing  Mrs.  Tod  say  that,  on 
account  of  its  pits  and  quarries,  the  common  was  extremely 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  179 

dangerous  after  dark,  except  to  those  who  knew  it  well.  In 
a  horrible  dread  I  called  out  John's  name — but  no  one  an- 
swered. I  went  on  blindly,  desperately,  shouting  as  I  went. 
At  length,  in  one  of  the  Roman  fosses,  I  stumbled  and  fell. 
Some  one  came,  darting  with  great  leaps  through  the  mist, 
and  lifted  me  up. 

"  Oh  !  David— David  !  " 

"  Phineas — is  that  you  ?  You  have  come  out  this  bitter 
night — why  did  you  !  " 

His  tenderness  over  me,  even  then,  made  me  break  down. 
I  forgot  my  manhood,  or  else  it  slipped  from  me  un- 
awares. In  the  old  Bible  language,  "  I  fell  on  his  neck  and 
wept." 

Afterwards,  I  was  not  sorry  for  this,  because  I  think  my 
weakness  gave  him  strength.  I  think,  amidst  the  whirl  of 
passion  that  racked  him,  it  was  good  for  him  to  feel  that 
the  one  crowning  cup  of  life  is  not  inevitably  life's  sole  sus- 
tenance ;  that  it  was  something  to  have  a  friend  and  brother 
who  loved  him  with  a  love — like  Jonathan's — "passing  the 
love  of  women." 

"  I  have  been  very  wrong,"  he  kept  repeating,  in  a  broken 
voice  ;  "  but  I  was  not  myself.  I  am  better  now.  Come 
— let  us  go  home." 

He  put  his  arm  round  me  to  keep  me  warm.  He  even 
sat  down  by  the  tire  to  talk  with  me.  AVhatever  struggle 
there  had  been,  I  saw  it  was  over,  he  looked  his  own  self — 
only  so  very,  very  pale,  and  spoke  in  his  natural  voice  ; 
ay,  even  when  mentioning  her,  which  he  was  the  first 
to  do. 

"  She  goes  to-morrow,  you  are  sure,  Phineas  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so.     Shall  you  see  her  again  ?  " 

"If  she  desires  it." 

"  Shall  you  say  anything  to  her  ?  " 

"Nothing.  If  for  a  little  while — not  knowing  or  not 
thinking  of  all  the  truth — I  felt  I  had  strength  to  remove 
all  impediments,  I  now  see  that  even  to  dream  of  such 
things,  makes  me  a  fool,  or  possibly  worse — a  knave.  I  will 
be  neither — I  will  he  a  man." 

I  replied  not  ;   how  could  one    answer  such  words  ? — • 


180  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

calmly  uttered,  though  each  syllable  must  have  beeu  ton. 
out  like  a  piece  of  his  heart. 

"Did  she  say  anything  to  you  ?  Did  she  ask  why  I  left 
her  so  abruptly  this  morning  ?  " 

"  She  did  ;  I  said  you  would  probably  tell  her  the  reason 
yourself. " 

"  I  will.  She  must  no  longer  be  kept  in  ignorance  about 
me  or  my  position.  I  shall  tell  her  the  whole  truth— save 
one  thing.     She  need  never  know  that." 

I  guessed  by  his  broken  voice  what  the  "^^  one  thing" 
was  ; — which  he  counted  as  notliing  ;  but  which,  I  think, 
any  true  women  would  have  counted  wortli  everything — 
the  priceless  gift  of  a  good  man's  love.  Love,  that  in  such 
a  nature  as  his,  if  once  conceived,  would  last  a  life-time. 
And  she  was  not  to  know  it !  I  felt  sorry — ay,  even  sorry, 
for  Ursula  March. 

"  Do  you  not  think  I  am  right,  Phineas  ?" 

"  Perhaps.     I  cannot  say.     You  are  the  best  judge." 

"  It  is  right,"  said  he,  firmly.  "  There  can  be  no  pos- 
sible hope  for  me  ;  nothing  remains  but  silence." 

I  did  not  quite  agree  with  him.  I  could  not  see  that 
to  any  young  man,  only  twenty  years  old,  with  the  world  all 
before  him,  any  love  could  be  absolutely  hopeless  ;  espe- 
cially to  a  young  man  like  John  Halifax.  But  as  things 
now  stood,  I  deemed  it  best  to  leave  him  altogether  to  him- 
self, offering  neither  advice  nor  opinion.  What  Providence 
willed,  through  //  is  will,  would  happen  :  for  me  to  interfere 
either  way  would  be  at  once  idle  and  perilous  ;  nay,  in  some 
sense,  exceedingly  wrong. 

So  I  kept  my  thoughts  to  myself,  and  preserved  a  total 
silence. 

•     John  broke  it — talking  to  himself  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
I  was  by. 

"  To  think  it  was  she  who  did  it — that  first  kindness  to 
a  poor  friendless  boy.  I  never  forgot  it — never.  It  did 
me  more  good  than  I  can  tell.  And  that  scar  on  her  poor 
arm — her  dear  little  tender  arm  ! — how  this  morniusf  I 
would  have  given  all  the  world  to " 

He  broke  off — instinctively,  as  it  were — with  the  sort  of 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  181 

feeling  every  good  man  has,  that  the  sacred  passion,  the  in- 
most tenderness  of  his  love,  should  be  kept  wholly  between 
himself  and  the  woman  he  has  chosen. 

I  knew  that  too  ;  knew  that  in  his  heart  had  grown  up  a 
secret,  a  necessity,  a  desire,  stronger  than  any  fricnd^liip — 
closer  than  the  closest  bond  of  brotherly  love.  Perhaps — 
I  hardly  know  why — I  sighed. 

John  turned  round — "  Phineas,  you  must  not  think — be- 
cause of  this — which  you  will  understand  for  yourself,  I 
hope,  one  day  ;  you  must  not  think  I  could  ever  think  less, 
or  feel  less,  about  my  brother." 

He  spoke  earnestly,  with  a  full  heart.  We  clasped  hands 
warmly  and  silently.  Thus  was  healed  my  last  lingering 
pain — I  was  thenceforward  entirely  satisfied. 

I  think  we  parted  that  night  as  we  had  never  parted  lie- 
fore,  feeling  that  the  trial  of  our  friendship — the  great  trial, 
perhaps,  of  any  friendship — had  come  and  passed,  safely  : 
that  whatever  new  ties  might  gather  round  each,  our  two 
hearts  would  cleave  together  until  death. 

The  next  morning  rose,  as  I  have  seen  many  a  morning 
rise  at  Enderlcy — misty  and  grey  ;  but  oh,  so  heavenly  fair  ; 
with  a  pearly  network  of  dewy  gossamer  under  foot,  and 
overhead  countless  thistle-downs  flying  about,  like  fairy 
chariots  hurrying  out  of  sight  of  the  sun,  which  had  only 
mounted  hio-h  enough  above  the  Flat  to  touch  the  horizon 
of  hills  opposite,  and  the  tops  of  my  four  poplars,  leaving 
Rose  Cottage  and  the  valley  below  it  all  in  morning  sha- 
dow. John  called  me  to  go  with  him  on  the  common  ;  his 
voice  sounded  so  cheerful  outside  my  door,  that  it  was  with 
a  glad  heart  I  rose  and  went. 

He  chose  his  old  walk — his  "terrace."  No  chance  now 
of  meeting  the  light  figure  coming  tripping  along  the  level 
hill.  All  that  dream  was  now  over.  He  did  not  speak  of 
it — nor  I.  He  seemed  contented — or,  at  least,  thoroughly 
calmed  down  ;  except  that  the  sweet  composure  of  his  mien 
had  settled  into  the  harder  gravity  of  manhood.  The  crisis 
and  climax  of  youth  had  been  gone  through — he  never 
could  be  a  boy  again. 

We  came  to  that  part  of  John's  terrace  which  overhung 


182  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

the  church-yard.  Both  of  us  glanced  instinctively  down  to 
the  heap  of  loose  red  earth — the  as  yet  nameless  grave. 
Some  one  stood  beside  it — the  only  one  who  was  likely  to 
be  there. 

Even  haxi  I  not  recognized  her,  John's  manner  would 
have  told  me  who  it  was.  A  deadly  paleness  overspread 
his  face — its  quietness  was  gone — every  feature  trembled — 
it  almost  broke  my  heart  to  see  how  deeply  this  love  had 
struck  its  roots  down  to  the  very  core  of  his  ;  twisting  them 
with  every  fibre  of  his  being.  A  love  which,  though  it  had 
sprung  up  so  early,  and  come  to  maturity  so  fast,  might 
yet  be  the  curse  of  his  whole  existence.  Save  that  no  love 
conceived  virtuously,  for  a  good  woman,  be  it  ever  so  hope- 
less, can  be  rightly  considered  as  a  curse. 

"  Shall  we  go  away?"  I  whispered — "a  long  walk — to 
the  other  side  of  the  Flat  ?  She  will  have  left  Eose  Cottage 
Boon.'^ 

"  When  ?  " 

"  Before  noon,  I  heard.     Come,  David." 

He  suffered  me  to  put  my  arm  in  his,  and  draw  him  away 
for  a  step  or  two,  then  turned. 

"  I  can't,  Phineas,  I  can't  !  1  iniist  look  at  her  again — 
only  for  one  minute— one  little  minute." 

Biit  he  stayed — we  were  standing  where  she  could  not 
see  us — till  she  had  slowly  left  the  grave.  We  heard  the 
click  of  the  church-yard  gate  ;  where  she  went  afterward,  we 
could  not  discern. 

John  moved  away.  I  asked  hiju  if  we  should  take  our 
walk  now  ?  But  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  me  ;  so  I  let  him 
follow  his  own  way — perhajis  it  might  be  for  good — who 
could  tell  ? 

He  descended  from  the  Flat,  and  came  quickly  round  the 
corner  of  the  cottage.  Miss  March  stood  there,  trying  to 
find  one  fresh  rose  among  the  fast-Avithering  clusters  about 
what  had  been  our  parlor  window  and  now  was  hers. 

She  saw  us,  acknowledged  us,  but  hurriedly,  and  not 
without  some  momentary  signs  of  agitation. 

"  The  roses  are  all  gone,"  she  said,  rather  sadly. 

*'  Perhaps,  higher  up,  I  can  reach  one — shall  1  try 


9  j» 


.TOHISr   HALIFAX.  183 

I  marvelled  to  see  that  Jolm's  manner  as  he  addressorl 
her  was  just  like  his  manner  always  with  her. 

"  Thank  you — that  will  do.  I  wanted  to  take  some  away 
with  me — I  am  leaving  Rose  Cottage  to-day,  Mr.  Halifax." 

''  So  T  have  heard." 

He  did  not  say  "sorry  to  hear."  1  wondered  did  the 
omission  strike  her  ?  But  no — she  evidently  regarded  us 
both  as  mere  acquaintances,  inevitably,  perhaps  even  ten- 
derly bound  u,p  witli  this  time  ;  and  as  such,  claiming  a 
more  than  ordinary  place  in  her  regard  and  remembrance. 
No  man  with  common  sense  or  common  feeling,  could  for 
a  moment  dare  to  misinterpret  the  emotion  she  showed. 

Re-entering  the  house,  she  asked  us  if  we  would  come  in 
with  her  ;  she  had  a  few  things  to  say  to  us.  And  then  she 
again  referred  gratefully  to  our  '•  kindness." 

We  all  went  once  more — for  the  last  time — into  the  little 
parlor. 

"Yes — I  am  going  away,"  said  she,  mournfully. 

"We  hope  all  good  will  go  with  you — always  and  every- 
where. " 

"  Thank  you.  Mr.  Fletcher." 

It  was  strange,  the  gi-ave  tone  our  intercourse  now  in- 
variably assumed.  We  might  have  been  three  old  people, 
who  had  long  fought  with  and  endured  the  crosses  of  the 
world,  instead  of  two  young  men  and  a  young  woman,  in  the 
very  dawn  of  life. 

"  Circumstances  have  fixed  my  plans  since  I  saw  you 
yesterday.  I  am  going  to  reside  for  a  time  with  my  cousins, 
the  Brithwoods.  It  seems  best  for  me.  Lady  Caroline  is 
very  kmd,  and  I  am  so  lonely." 

She  said  this  not  in  any  compliment,  but  as  if  accept- 
ing the  fact,  and  making  up  her  mind  to  endure  it.  A 
little  more  fragmentary  conversation  passed,  chiefly  between 
herself  and  me — John  uttered  scarcely  a  word.  He  sat  by 
the  window,  half  shading  his  face  with  his  hand.  Under 
that  covert,  the  gaze  which  incessantly  followed  and  dwelt 
on  her  face — oh,  had  she  seen  it  ! 

The  moments  narrowed.  Would  he  say  what  he  had  in- 
tended, concerning  his  position  in  the  world  ?     Had  she 


184  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

T^iiessed  or  learned  anything,  or  were  we  to  her  simply  Mr. 
Halifax  and  Mr.  Fletcher— two  "gentlemen"  of  Norton 
3ury  ?     It  appeared  so. 

' '  This  is  not  a  very  long  good-bye,  I  trust  ?  "  said  she  to 
me,  with  something  more  than  courtesy.  "  I  shall  remain 
at  the  Mythe  House  some  weeks,  I  believe.  How  long  do 
you  purpose  staying  at  Enderley  ?  " 

I  was  uncertain. 

"  But  your  home  is  in  Norton  Bury  ?  I  hope — I  trust, 
you  will  allow  my  cousin  to  express  in  his  own  house  his 
thanks  and  mine  for  your  great  kindness  during  my 
trouble  ?  " 

Neither  of  us  answered.  Miss  March  looked  surprised — 
hurt — nay,  displeased  ;  then  her  eye,  resting  on  John,  lost 
its  haughtiness,  and  became  humble  and  sweet. 

"  Mr.  Halifax,  I  know  nothing  of  my  cousin,  and  I  do 
know  you.  Will  you  tell  me — candidly,  as  I  know  yon  will 
— whether  there  is  anything  in  Mr.  Brithwood,  which  you 
think  unworthy  of  your  acquaintance  ?  " 

"  He  would  think  mo  unworthy  of  his,"  was  the  low, 
firm  answer. 

Miss  March  smiled  incredulously.  "Because  you  are  not 
very  rich  ?  What  can  that  signify  ?  It  is  enough  for  me 
that  my  friends  are  gentlemen." 

"  Mr.  Brithwood,  and  many  others,  would  not  allow  my 
claim  to  that  title." 

Astonished — -nay,  somewhat  more  than  astonished — the 
young  gentlewoman  drew  back  a  little.  "  I  do  not  quite 
understand  you." 

"  Let  me  explain,  then  ;"  and  her  involuntary  gesture 
seeming  to  have  brought  back  all  honest  dignity  and  manly 
pride,  he  faced  her,  once  more  himself.  "It  is  right.  Miss 
March,  that  you  should  know  who  and  what  I  am,  to  whom 
you  are  giving  the  honor  of  your  kindness.  Perhaps  you 
ought  to  have  known  before  ;  but  here,  at  Enderley,  we 
seemed  to  be  equals — friends." 

"  I  have  indeed  felt  it  so." 

"  Then,  you  will  the  sooner  jiardon  my  not  telling  you — 
what  you  never  asked,  and  I  was  only  too  ready  to  forget— 


JOHIf   HALIFAX.  185 

that  we  are  not  equals — that  is,  society  would  not  regard 
us  as  such — and  I  doubt  if  even  you  yourself  would  wish 
us  to  be  friends." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I  am  a  tradesman." 

The  news  was  evidently  a  shock  to  her — it  could  not  but 
be,  reared  as  she  had  been.  She  sat — the  eye-lashes  drop- 
ping over  her  flushed  cheeks — perfectly  silent. 

John's  voice  grew  firmer — prouder — no  hesitation  now. 

"My  calling  is,  as  you  will  soon  hear  at  Norton  Bury, 
that  of  a  tanner.  T  am  apprentice  to  Abel  Fletcher — 
Phineas's  father." 

"  Mr.  Fletcher  !  "  She  looked  up  at  me — a  mingled  look 
of  kindliness  and  pain. 

"Ay.  Phineas  is  a  little  less  beneath  your  notice  than  1 
am.  He  is  rich — he  has  been  well  educated  ;  I  have  had  to 
educate  myself.  I  came  to  Norton  Bury  six  years  ago — 
a  beggar-boy.  No,  not  C[uite  that,  for  I  never  begged  ; 
either  worked  or  starved." 

The  earnestness,  the  passion  of  his  tone,  made  Miss  March 
lift  her  eyes,  but  they  fell  again. 

"  Yes,  Phineas  found  me  in  an  alley — starving.  We  stood 
in  the  rain,  opposite  the  mayor's  house.  A  little  girl — you 
know  her.  Miss  March — came  to  the  door,  and  threw  out 
to  me  a  bit  of  bread." 

Now  indeed  she  started.     "  You — was  that  you  ?  " 

"  It  was  I." 

John  paused,  and  his  whole  manner  changed  into  soft- 
ness, as  he  resumed.  "  I  never  forgot  that  little  girl. 
Many  a  time,  when  I  Avas  inclined  to  do  wrong,  she  kept 
me  rio'lit — the  remembrance  of  her  sweet  face  and  her  kind- 
ness." 

That  face  was  pressed  down  against  the  sofa  where  she 
sat.     Miss  March  was  all  but  weeping. 

John  continued. 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  met  her  again — glad  to  have  been 
able  to  do  her  some  small  good  in  return  for  the  infinite 
good  she  once  did  me.  I  shall  bid  her  farewell  now — at 
once  and  altogether." 


186  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

A  quick  involuntary  turn  of  the  hidden  face  asked  him, 
"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because,"  John  answered,  "  the  world  says  we  are  not 
equals,  and  it  would  neither  be  for  Miss  March's  honor  nor 
mine  did  I  try  to  force  upon  it  the  truth,  which  I  may  prove 
openly  one  day — that  we  are  equals." 

Miss  March  looked  up  at  him — it  were  hard  to  say  with 
what  expression  of  pleasure,  or  pride,  or  simple  astonish- 
ment ;  perhaps  a  mingling  of  all.  She  silently  offered  her 
hand,  first  to  me  and  then  to  John.  A^'hether  she  meant 
it  as  friendliness,  or  as  a  mere  ceremony  of  adieu,  I  cannot 
tell.     Jolm  took  it  as  the  latter,  and  rose. 

His  hand  was  on  the  door — but  he  could  not  go. 

"Miss  March,"  he  said,  '^perhaps  I  may  never  see  you 
again — at  least,  never  as  now.  Let  me  look  once  more  at 
that  wrist  which  v/as  hurt." 

Her  left  arm  was  hanging  over  the  sofa — the  scar  being 
visible  enough.     John  took  the  hand,  and  held  it  firmly. 

"  Poor  little  hand — blessed  little  hand  I  May  God  bless 
it  evermore." 

Suddenly  he  pressed  his  li}is  to  the  place  where  the  wound 
had  been — a  kiss  long  and  close,  sucli  as  only  a  lover's  kiss 
could  be.     Surely  she  must  have  felt  it — known  it. 

A  moment  afterward,  he  was  gone. 

That  day  Miss  March  departed,  and  we  remained  at  En- 
derley  alone. 


•      CHAPTER  XYT. 

It  was  winter-time.  All  the  summer-days  at  Enderley 
vvere  gone,  "like  a  dream  when  one  awaketh/'  Of  her 
who  had  been  the  beautiful  centre  of  the  dream,  we  had 
never  heard  nor  spoken  since. 

John  and  I  were  walking  together  along  the  road  to- 
wards the  Mytiie  ;  avc  could  just  see  the  frosty  sunset  re- 
flected on  tlie  windows  of  the  Mythe  House,  now  closed  for 
months,  the  family  being  away.  The  meadows  alongside, 
where  the  Avon  had  overflowed  and  frozen,  were  a  popular 
skating-ground  :  and  the  road  was  alive  with  lookers-on  of 
every  class.  All  Norton  Bury  seemed  abroad  ;  and  half 
Norton  Bury  exchanged  salutations  with  my  companion, 
till  I  was  amused  to  notice  how  large  John's  acquaintance 
had  grown. 

Among  the  rest,  there  overtook  us  a  little  elderly  lady, 
as  prim  and  neat  as  an  old  maid,  and  as  bright  looking  as 
a  happy  matron.  I  saw  at  once  who  it  was — Mrs.  Jessop, 
our  good  doctor's  new  wife,  and  old  love  ;  whom  he  had 
lately  brought  home,  to  the  great  amazement  andcuriositv 
of  Norton  Bury. 

"  She  seems  to  like  you  very  much,"  I  said  ;  as  after  a 
cordial  greeting,  which  John  returned  rather  formally,  she 
trotted  on. 

"  They  were  both  very  kind  to  me  in  London,  last 
month,  as  I  think  I  told  you." 

"  Ay  ! ''  It  was  one  of  the  few  things  he  had  mentioned 
about  that  same  London  journey,  for  he  had  grown  into  a 
painful  habit  of  silence  now.  Yet  I  dreaded  to  break  it- 
lest  any  wounds  rankling  beneath  might  thereby  be  caused 
to  smart  once  more.  And  our  love  to  one  another  was  too 
faithful  for  a  little  reserve  to  have  power  to  influence  it  in 
any  Avay. 

We  came  once  more  upon  the  old  ladv,  watching  the 

187 


188  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

skaters.  She  again  spoke  to  Jolm^  and  looked  at  me  with 
her  keen,  kind,  blue  eyes. 

"'  I  think  I  know  who  your  friend  is,  though  you  do  not 
introduce  him.  (John  hastily  performed  that  ceremony.) 
'^  Tom  and  I "  (how  funny  to  hear  her  call  our  old  bache- 
lor doctor,  '  Tom  ! ')  "  were  wondering  what  had  become 
of  you,  Mr.  Halifax.  Are  you  stronger  than  you  were  in 
liondon  ?" 

"  Was  he  ill  in  London,  madam  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,  Phineas  !  Or  only  enough  to  win  for  me 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jessop's  great  kindness." 

'•  Which  you  have  never  come  to  thank  us  for.  Never 
crossed  our  door-sill  since  we  returned  home  !  Does  not 
your  conscience  sting  you  for  your  ingratitude  ?  " 

He  colored  deejil}^ 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Jessop,  it  was  not  ingratitude." 

"I  know  it;  I  believe  it,"  she  answered,  with  much 
kindness.     "  Tell  me  what  it  was  ?  " 

He  hesitated. 

"  You  ought  to  believe  the  warm  interest  we  both  take 
in  you.     Tell  me  the  jilain  truth." 

"  I  will.  It  is  that  your  kindness  to  me  in  Loudon  was 
no  reason  for  my  intruding  on  you  at  Norton  Bury.  It 
might  not  be  agreeable  for  you  and  Dr.  Jessop  to  have  my 
acquaintance  here." 

The  little  old  lady's  eyes  brightened  into  something  be- 
yond mere  kindness  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"Mr.  Halifax,  I  thank  you  for  that  '^ plain  truth.' 
Truth  is  always  best.  Now  for  mine.  I  had  heard  you 
were  a  tradesman  ;  I  found  out  for  myself  that  you  were  a 
gentleman.  I  do  not  think  the  two  facts  incompatible, 
nor  does  my  husband.  We  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  at  our 
house  at  all  times,  and  under  all  circumstances." 

She  offered  him  her  hand.  John  bowed  over  it  in 
silence. 

"  Well,  then,  suppose  you  come  this  evening ;  both  of 

you  ?" 

We-assented  ;  and  on  her  further  invitation.  John  and  I 
and  the  little  old  lady  walked  on  together. 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  189 

I  could  not  help  watching  Mrs.  Jessop  with  some  amuse- 
ment. Norton  Bury  said  she  had  been  a  poor  governess 
all  her  days  ;  but  that  hard  life  had  left  no  shadow  on  the 
cheerful  sunset  of  her  existence  now.  It  was  a  frank, 
bright,  happy  face,  in  spite  of  its  Avrinkles,  and  its  some- 
what hard  Welch  features.  And'  it  was  pleasant  to 
hear  her  talk,  even  though  she  talked  a  good  deal,  and  in 
a  decidedly  Welch  accent.  Sometimes  a  tone  or  two  re- 
minded me  slightly  of Ay,  it  was  easy  to  guess  why 

John  evidently  liked  the  old  lady. 

"  I  know  this  road  well,  Mr.  Halifax.  Once  I  spent  a 
summer  here,  with  an  old  pupil  now  grown-up.  I  am 
going  to-day  to  inquire  about  her  at  the  Mythe  House. 
The  Brithwoods  came  home  yesterday." 

I  was  afraid  to  look  at  John.  Even  to  me  the  news 
was  startling.  IIow  I  blessed  Mrs.  Jessop's  innocent  gar- 
rulousness. 

"  I  hope  they  will  remain  here  some  time.  I  have  a 
special  interest  in  their  stay.  Not  on  Lady  Caroline's 
account,  though.  She  patronizes  me  very  kindly  ;  but  I 
doubt  if  she  ever  forgets,  what  Tom  says  I  am  rather  too 
proud  of  remembering — that  I  was  the  poor  governess, 
Jane  Cardigan." 

"Jane  Cardigan  I"  I  exclaimed. 

"  What,  Mr.  Fletcher,  you  know  my  name  !  And  really, 
now  I  think  of  it,  I  believe  I  have  heard  yours.  Not  from 
Tom,  either.  It  couldn't  possibly  be — yet  it  certainly  was 
— How  strange  !  Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  a  Miss  Ursula 
March  ?  " 

The  live  crimson  rushed  madly  over  John's  face.  Mrs. 
Jessop  saw  it ;  she  could  not  but  see.  At  first,  she  looked 
astounded,  then  exceedingly  grave. 

I  replied,  "  that  we  had  had  the  honor  of  meeting  Miss 
March  last  summer,  at  Enderley." 

"  Yes,"  the  old  lady  continued  somewhat  formally. 
"  Now  I  recollect,  Miss  March  told  me  of  the  circumstance  ; 
of  two  gentlemen  there,  who  were  very  kind  to  her  when 
her  father  died  ;  a  Mr.  Fletcher  and  his  friend — was  thai 
Mr.  Halifax  ?  " 


190  JOHX   HALIFAX. 

"■  It  was/'  1  answered  :  for  John  was  speechless.  Alas  ; 
I  saw  at  once  that  all  my  hopes  for  him,  all  the  design  of 
my  long  silence  on  this  suhject,  had  been  in  vain.  No,  he 
had  not  forgotten  her.     It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  forget. 

Mrs.  Jessop  went  on,  still  addressing  herself  to  me. 

"  I  am  sure  I  ought/ on  behalf  of  my  dear  pupil,  to  offer 
you  both  my  warmest  thanks.  Hers  was  a  most  trying 
position.  She  never  told  me  of  it  till  afterwards,  poor 
child  !  I  am  thankful  her  troubl-e  was  softened  to  her  by 
finding  that  strangers  " — (Avas  it  only  my  fancy  that  de- 
tected a  slight  stress  on  the  word?) — -''mere  strangers 
could  be  at  once  so  thoughtful  and  so  kind." 

"  No  one  could  be  otherwise  to  Miss  March.  Is  she  well  ? 
Has  she  recovered  from  her  trial  ?  " 

''  I  hope  so.  Happily,  few  sorrows,  few  feelings  of  any 
kind,  take  lasting  hold  at  eighteen.  She  is  a  noble  girl. 
She  did  her  duty,  and  it  was  no  light  one,  to  him  who  is 
gone  ;  now  her  life  begins  anew.  It  is  sure  to  be  prosper- 
ous— I  trust  it  may  be  very  happy. — Now  I  must  bid  you 
both  good-bye.'' 

She  stopped  at  the  gates  of  the  Mythe  House  ;  great 
iron  gates,  a  barrier  as  proud  and  impassable  as  that  which 
in  these  times  the  rich  shut  against  the  poor,  the  aristocrat 
against  the  plebeian.  John,  glancing  once  up  at  them, 
hurriedly  moved  on. 

"Stay;    yon    will    come    and    see    us,    Mr.    Halifax  ? 
Promise." 

"  If  you  wish  it." 

''  And  jiromise,  too  that,  under  all  circumstances,  you 
will  tell  me,  as  you  did  this  morning,  the  '  ])\?an  truth.' 
Yes,  I  see  you  will.     Good-bye." 

The  iron  gates  closed  upon  her,  and  against  us.  We 
took  our  silent  way  up  to  the  Mythe  to  our  favorite  stile. 
There  we  leaned — still  in  silence,  for  many  minutes. 

"  The  Avind  is  keen,  Phineas  ;  you  must  be  cold." 

Now  I  could  speak  to  him — could  ask  him  to  tell  me  of 
his  pain. 

"  It  is  so  long  since  you  have  told  me  anything.  It  might 
do  you  good." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  101 


'^  Nothing  can  do  me  good.  Xothing  hut  heariu'T^  it. 
My  God  !  what  have  I  not  home  !  Five  whole  months  to 
be  dying  of  thirst,  and  not  a  drop  of  water  to  cool  my 
tongue." 

He  bared  his  head  and  throat  to  the  cutting  wind — his 
chest  heaved,  liis  eyes  seemed  in  a  flame. 

"  God  forgive  me  I — but  I  sometimes  think  I  Avould  give 
myself  body  and  soul  to  the  devil,  for  one  glimpse  of  her 
face,  one  touch  of  her  little  liand.'' 

I  uiade  no  answer.  What  answer  could  be  made  to 
such  words  as  these  ?  I  waited — all  I  could  do — till  the 
paroxysm  had  gone  by.  'I'hen  I  hinted — as  indeed  seemed 
not  unlikely — that  he  might  see  her  soon. 

"■  Yes,  a  great  way  off,  like  that  cloud  up  there.  But  I 
Avant  her  near — close — in  my  home — at  my  heart  I — Phine- 
as,"  he  gasped,  "  talk  to  me — about  something  else — 
anything.     Don't  let  me  think,  or  I  shall  go  clean  mad," 

And  indeed  he  looked  so.  I  Avas  terrified.  So  quiet  as 
I  had  always  seen  him  avIkmi  we  met,  so  steadily  as  he  had 
pursued  his  daily  duties  ;  and  Avith  all  this  underneath — 
this  torment,  conflict,  despair,  of  a  young  man's  love.  It 
must  come  out — better  it  should. 

"  And  you  have  gone  on  Avorking  all  this  Avhile  ?  " 

"  I  Avas  obliged.  Nothing  but  Avork  kept  me  in  my 
senses.  Besides  '"' — and  he  laughed  hoarsely — '"  I  Avas  safest 
in  the  tan-yard.  The  thought  of  her  could  not  come  there. 
I  Avas  glad  of  it.  I  tried  to  be  solely,  and  altogether  wdiat 
I  am — a  'prentice  lad — a  mere  cloAvn." 

"  Nay,  that  Avas  AATong." 

"  Was  it  ?  Well,  at  last  it  struck  me  so.  I  thought  I 
would  be  a  gentleman  again — just  for  a  pretence,  you  know 
— a  dream — a  bit  of  the  old  dream  back  again.  So  I  went 
to  London." 

"  And  met  the  Jessops  there  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  thongli  I  did  not  know  she  was  Jane  Cardigan. 
But  I  liked  her — I  liked  my  life  Avith  them.  It  Avas  like 
breathing  a  higher  air,  the  same  air  that — Oh,  Phineas, 
it  was  horrible  to  come  back  to  my  life  here — to  that  ac- 
cursed tan-yard  I " 


192  JOHSr    HALIFAX. 

I  said  nothing. 

"  You  see,  now  " — and  that  hard  laugh  smote  me  to  the 
heart  again — "  you  see,  Phineas,  how  wicked  I  am  grow- 
ing.    You  will  have  to  cut  my  acquaintance  presently." 

"  Tell  me  the  rest — I  mean,  the  rest  of  your  life  in 
London,"  I  said,  after  a  j)ause.      "  Did  you  hear  of  her  ?" 

"  Of  course  not ;  though  I  knew  she  was  there.  I  saw 
it  in  the  '  Court  Circular.'  Fancy  a  lady,  whose  name 
was  in  the  '  Court  Circular,'  being  inquired  after  by  a 
tanner's  lad  !  But  I  wanted  to  look  at  her — any  beggar 
might  do  that,  yon  know — so  I  watched  in  streets  and 
parks,  by  theatre-doors  at  nights,  and  by  church-doors  on 
Sunday  mornings  ;  yet  I  never  saw  her  once.  Only  think, 
not  once  for  five  whole  months." 

"  John,  how  could  you  tell  me  you  were  hajipy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  because  of  my  pride  ;  perhaps 
because — Ah,  don't  look  so  wretched  !  Why  did  you  let 
me  say  all  this  ?     You  are  too  good  for  such  as  I." 

Of  course,  I  took  no  heed  of  idle  words  like  these.  I 
let  him  stand  there,  leaning  against  the  stile,  now  and 
then  grasping  it  with  his  nervous,  muscular  hands,  as  if 
he  would  tear  it  down  ;  then  I  said  quietly — 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do  ?" 

"  Do  ?  Nothing  !  What  can  I  do  ?  Though  some- 
times a  score  of  j^lans  rush  into  my  mind,  such  as  to  run 
away  to  the  Indies,  like  that  young  Warren  Hastings  we 
were  talking  of,  come  back  twenty  years  hence  a  nabob, 
and — marry  her." 

"  Marry  her,"  I  repeated,  mournfully. 

"  Ay,  I  could.  That  is  what  maddens  me.  If  now  she 
and  I  were  to  meet  and  stand  together,  equal  man  and 
woman,  I  could  make  her  love  me  ;  I  feel  I  could.  Instead 
of  crawling  after  her  thus,  I  would  go  boldly  in  at  those 
very  gates — do  you  think  she  is  there  ?  " 

He  trembled,  actually  trembled,  at  the  mere  thought  of 
her  being  so  near. 

"  Oh,  it's  hard,  hard  !  I  could  despise  myself.  Why 
cannot  I  trust  my  manhood,  my  honest  manhood  that  I 
was  born  with,  go  straight  to  her  and  tell  her  that  I  love 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  193 

her;  that  God  meant  her  for  mo -and  me  for  licr — true 
husband  and  true  wife  ?  Phineas,  mark  my  words  ^'' — 
and,  wild  as  his  manner  was,  it  liad  a  certain  force  which 
sounded  most  lilce  prophecy — "if  ever  Ursula  March 
marries,  she  will  be  my  wife — mij  wife  ! " 

I  could  only  murmur — "  Heaven  grant  it  ! " 

*'  But  we  shall  never  marry,  neither  one  nor  the  other 
of  us  ;  we  shall  go  on  apart  and  alone,  till  the  next  world. 
Perhaps  she  will  come  to  me  then  :  I  may  have  her  in  my 
heart  there." 

John  looked  upward  :  there  was  in  the  west  a  broad, 
red,  frosty  cloud,  and  just  beyond  it,  nay,  all  but  resting 
on  it,  the  new  moon — a  little,  wintry,  soft  new  moon.  A 
sight  that  might  well  have  hushed  the  maddest  storm  of 
passion  :  it  hushed  his.  lie  stood  still,  looking  up,  for 
many  minutes,  then  his  eyes  closed,  the  lashes  all  wet. 

'MVe'll  never  speak  of  this  again,  Phineas  ;  I'll  not 
grieve  thee  any  more  ;  111  try  and  be  a  better  brother  to 
thee  for  the  future.     Come  along  !  " 

He  drew  my  arm  in  his,  and  we  went  home. 

Passing  the  tan-yard,  Jolm  proposed  that  we  should  call 
for  my  father.  My  poor  father  ;  now  daily  growing  more 
sour  and  old,  and  daily  leaning  more  and  more  upon  John, 
who  never  ceased  to  respect,  and  make  every  one  else  re- 
spect, his  master.  Though  still  ostensibly  a  ^prentice,  he 
had  now  the  business  almost  entirely  in  his  hands.  It  was 
pleasant  to  see  how  my  father  brightened  up  at  his  coming 
— how  readily,  when  he  returned  homeward,  he  leaned 
upon  John's  strong  arm,  now  the  support  of  both  him  and 
me.  Thus  we  Avalked  through  Norton  Bury  streets,  where 
everybody  knew  us,  and  indeed  as  it  seemed  to  me  this 
morning,  nearly  everybody  greeted  us — at  least,  one  of  us  ; 
but  my  father  walked  along  soberly  and  sternly,  frowning 
at  almost  every  salutation  John  Halifax  received. 

"  Thee  art  making  far  too  manv  friends.  John.  I  warn 
ihee  ! " 

*'^Not  friendii — only  friendly  acquaintance,"  was  the 
gentle  answer  :  he  was  well  used  to  turn  away,  daily  and 
hourly,  Abel  Fletcher's  wrath.  But  it  was  roused  beyond 
13 


194  JOH¥r    HALIFAX. 

control  when  Dr.  Jessop's  neat  little  carriage,  and  neatest 
of  little  wives,  stopped  at  the  curb-stone  and  summoned 
John. 

"  I  want  you  and  Mr.  Fletcher  to  come  to  us  to-morrow 
instead  of  this  evening.  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood  wishes 
to  see  you." 

"  Me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you/'  smiled  the  old  lady  ;  "  you,  John  Halifax, 
the  hero  of  the  peojale,  who  quelled  the  bread  riots,  and 
gave  evidence  thereupon  to  Mr.  Pitt,  in  London.  ]^ay  ! 
why  didn't  you  tell  me  the  wonderful  story  ?  Her  lady- 
ship is  full  of  it.  She  will  torment  me  till  she  sees  you — 
I  know  her  ways.     For  my  sake,  you  must  come." 

Waiting  no  refusal,  Mrs.  Jessop  drove  on. 

"What's  that?"  said  my  father,  sharply.  "John, 
where  art  thee  going  ?" 

I  knew  this  was  the  first  warning-gun  of  a  battle  which 
broke  out  afresh  every  time  John  appeared  in  any  livelier 
garb  than  his  favorite  grey,  or  was  suspected  of  any  more 
worldly  associates  than  our  quiet  selves.  He  always  took 
my  father's  attacks  patiently — this  time  peculiarly  so. 
He  made  no  answer,  but  passed  his  hand  once  or  twice 
over  his  brow,  as  if  he  could  not  see  clearly. 

Abel  Fletcher  repeated  the  question. 

"  Yes  ;  that  was  Mrs.  Jessop,  sir." 

"  1  know,"  grumbled  my  father.  "■  The  doctor  is  a  fool 
in  his  old  age.     Who  did  she  want  thee  to  meet  ?  " 

'^She  I — Oh,  Lady  Caroline,  you  mean  ?" 

"  Lady  Caroline  wishes  particularly  to  see  John." 

Abel  Fletcher  stopped,  planted  his  stick  in  the  ground, 
released  his  arm  from  John's,  and  eyed  him  from  top  to 
toe. 

"'Thee? — a  woman  of  quality  wanting  to  see  thee? 
Young  man,  thee  art  a  hyj)ocrite." 

"  Sir  ! " 

*'  1  knew  it  !  I  foresaw  how  thy  fine  ways  would  end  I 
Going  to  London — crawling  at  the  heels  of  grand  folk — ■ 
despising  tliy  honest  trade — trying  to  make  thyself  appear 
a  gentleman  ! " 


JOHlsr    HALIFAX.  195 

"  I  hope  I  am  a  gentleman." 

Words  could  not  describe  my  father's  horrified  astonish- 
ment, ''Oh,  lad!"  he  cried — "'jioor  misguided  lad! — 
the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  thee  ! " 

John  smiled — his-  mind  evidently  full  of  other  thinirs. 
Abel  Fletcher's  anger  grew. 

"  And  thee  wants  to  hang  on  to  the  tail  of  other  '  gentle- 
men/ such  as  liichard  Brithwood  forsooth  ! — a  fox-hunt- 
ing, drinking,  dicing  fool  !  " 

I  was  shocked  ;  1  had  not  believed  him  so  bad  as  that — 
the  young  ^squire — ]\riss  ^larch's  cousin. 

"Or/'  pursued  my  father,  Avaxing  hotter  and  hotter, 
"or  a  'lady'  such  as  his  wife  is,  the  Jezebel  daughter  of 
an  Ahab  father — brought  up  in  the  imjiious  atrocities  of 
France,  and  tlie  debaucheries  of  Naples,  where,  though 
she  keeps  it  close  here,  she  abode  with  that  vile  woman 
whom  they  call  Lad}-  Hamilton." 

John  started.  Well  he  might,  for  even  to.  our  quiet 
town  had  come,  all  this  winter,  foul  newspaper  tales  about 
Nelson  and  Lady  Hamilton. 

"  Take  care,"  he  said,  in  much  agitation.  "Any  taint 
upon  a  woman's  fame  harms  not  her  alone,  but  all  con- 
nected with  her.  For  God's  sake,  sir,  whether  it  be  true 
or  not,  do  not  whisper  in  Norton  Bury  that  Lady  Caroline 
Brithwood  is  a  friend  of  Lady  Hamilton  ! " 

"  Pshaw  !     What  is  either  woman  to  us  ?  " 

And  my  father  climbed  the  steps  to  his  own  door,  John 
following. 

"  Nay,  young  gentleman,  my  poor  house  is  hardly  good 
enough  for  such  as  thee." 

John  turned,  cruelly  galled,  but  recovered  himself. 

"  You  are  unjust  to  me,  Abel  Fletcher  ;  and  you  your- 
self will  think  so  soon.     May  I  come  in  ?  " 

My  father  made  no  answer,  and  I  brought  John  in  as 
usual.  In  truth,  we  had  both  more  to  think  of  than  Abel 
Fletcher's  temporary  displeasure.  This  strange  chance — 
what  might  it  imply  ? — to  what  might  it  not  lead  ?  But 
no  :  if  I  judged  Mrs.  Jessop  aright,  it  neither  implied,  nor 
would  lead  to,  what  I  saw  John's  fancy  had  at  once  sprung 


196  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

toward,  and  revelled  in,  madly.  A  lover's  fancy — a  lover's 
hope.     Even  I  could  see  what  will-o'-the-wisps  they  were. 

But  the  doctor's  good  wife,  Ursula  March's  wise  gov- 
erness, would  never  lure  a  young  man  with  such  phantoms 
as  these.  I  felt  sure — certain — that  if  we  met  the  Brith- 
woods,  we  should  meet  no  one  else.  Certain,  even  when, 
as  we  sat  at  our  dish  of  tea,  there  came  in  two  little  dainty 
notes — the  first  invitations  to  worldly  festivity  that  had 
ever  tempted  our  Quaker  household,  and  which  Jael  flung 
out  of  her  fingers  as  if  they  had  been  coals  from  Gehenna. 
Notes,  bidding  us  to  a  '^little  supper"  at  Dr.  Jessop's, 
with  Mr.  and  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood,  of  the  Mythe 
House. 

"  Give  them  to  your  father,  Phineas."  And  John  vainly 
tried  to  hide  the  flash  of  his  eye — the  smiles  that  came  and 
went  like  summer  lightning — "To-morrow — you  see,  it  is 
to-morrow." 

Poor  lad.!  he  had  forgotten  every  worldly  thing,  in  the 
hope  of  that  to-morroAV. 

My  father's  sharp  voice  roused  him.  "  Phineas,  thee'lt 
stay  at  home.     Tell  the  woman  I  say  so." 

"  And  John,  father  ?  " 

"  John  may  go  to  ruin  if  he  chooses.  He  is  his  own 
master." 

"I  have  been  always."  And  the  answer  came  less  in 
pride  than  sadness.  "  I  might  have  gone  to  ruin  years  ago, 
but  for  the  mercy  of  Heaven  and  your  kindness.  Do  not 
let  us  be  at  warfare  now." 

"All  thy  own  fault,  lad.  Why  cannot  thee  keep  in  thy 
own  rank  ?  Respect  thyself.  Be  an  honest  tradesman,  as 
I  have  been." 

"  And  as  I  trust  always  to  be.  But  that  is  only  my  call- 
ing, not  me.  I — John  Halifax — am  just  the  same,  whether 
in  the  tan-yard  or  Dr.  Jessoji's  drawing-room.  The  one 
position  cannot  degrade,  nor  the  other  elevate  me.  I  should 
not  '  respect  myself,'  if  I  believed  otherwise." 

"  Eh  ? " — my  father  absolutely  dropped  his  pipe  in 
amazement.  "  Then,  thee  thinkest  thyself  already  quite 
a  gentleman  ?  " 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  197 

*'  As  I  told  you  before,  sir — I  hope  I  am." 

"  Fit  to  associate  with  the  finest  folk  in  the  land  ?  " 

*'If  they  desire  it,  and  I  choose  it,  certainly." 
Now,  Abel  Fletcher,  like  all  honest  men,  liked  honesty. 
And  something  in  John's  bold  spirit  and  free,  bright  eye, 
seemed  to-day  to  strike  him  more  than  ordinarily. 

"  Lad,  lad,  thee  art  young.  But  it  won't  last — no,  it 
won't  last." 

He  knocked  the  white  ashes  out  of  his  pipe — it  had  been 
curling  in  brave  wreaths  to  the  very  ceiling,  two  minutes 
before — and  sat  musing. 

"  But  about  to-morrow  ?"  persisted  John,  after  watching 
him  some  little  time.  "  I  could  go — I  could  have  gone, 
without  either  your  knowledge  or  permission  ;  but  I  had 
rather  deal  openly  with  you.  You  know  I  always  do. 
You  have  been  the  kindest  master — the  truest  friend  to 
me  ;  I  hope,  as  long  as  I  live,  rarely  to  oppose,  and  never 
to  deceive  you." 

His  manner — earnest,  yet  most  respectful — his  candid 
looks,  under  which  lurked  an  evident  anxiety  and  pain, 
might  have  mollilied  a  harder  man  than  Abel  Fletcher. 

"  John,  why  dost  thee  want  to  go  among  those  grand 
folk?" 

"  Not  because  they  are  grand  folk.  I  have  other  reasons 
— strong  reasons." 

"  Be  honest.     Tell  me  thy  strong  reasons." 

Here  was  a  strait. 

"  Why  dost  thee  blush,  young  man  ?  Is  it  aught  thee 
art  ashamed  of  ?  " 

'•'  Ashamed  !     No  I " 

''  Is  it  a  secret,  then,  the  telling  of  which  would  be  to 
thee,  or  to  any  else,  dishonor  ?  " 

"  Dishonor  !  "  And  the  bright  eye  shot  an  indignant 
gleam. 

'^Then,  tell  the  truth." 

"  I  will.  I  wish  first  to  find  out,  for  myself,  whether 
Lady  Caroline  Brithwood  is  fitted  to  have  under  her  charge 
one  who  is  young — innocent — good." 

'*  Has  she  such  an  one  ?     One  thee  knows  ?" 


198  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

''Yes." 

"  Man  or  woman  ?  " 

"Woman." 

My  father  tnrned,  and  looked  Jolm  full  in  the  eyes. 
Stern  as  that  look  was,  I  traced  in  it  a  strange  compassion. 

'^  Lad,  I  thought  so.  Thee  hast  found  the  curse  of  man's 
life — woman." 

To  my  amazement,  John  replied  not  a  syllable.  He 
seemed  even  as  if  he  had  forgotten  himself  and  his  own 
secret — thus,  for  what  end  I  knew  not,  voluntarily  betrayed 
— so  absorljed  was  he  in  contemplating  the  old  man.  And 
truly,  in  all  my  life,  I  had  never  seen  such  a  convulsion 
pass  over  my  father's  face.  It  was  like  as  if  some  one  had 
touched  and  revived  the  torment  of  a  long-hidden,  but 
never-to-be-healed  wound.  Not  till  years  after  did  I  under- 
stand the  full  meaning  of  John's  gaze,  or  why  he  was  so 
patient  with  my  father. 

The  torment  passed — ended  in  violent  anger, 

"Out  with  it.  Who  is  deluding  thee  ?  Is  it  a  matter 
of  wedlock,  or  only — " 

"  Stop  !  "  John  cried,  his  face  all  on  fire.  "  The 
lady—" 

"  It  is  a  '  lady  ! '  Now  I  see  why. thee  would  fain  be  a 
gentleman." 

"Oh,  father — how  can  you  ?" 

."  So  thee  knowest  it  too — I  see  it  in  thy  face.  Would'st 
thee  be  led  away  by  him  a  second  time  !  But  thee  shall 
not.  I'll  put  thee  under  lock  and  key  before  thee  shalt 
ruin  thyself,  and  disgrace  thy  father,'^ 

This  was  hard  to  bear  ;  but  I  believe — it  Avas  John's 
teaching — that  one  ought  to  bear  anything,  however  hard, 
from  a  just  and  worthy  parent.  And  it  was  John  himself 
who  now  grasped  my  hand,  and  whispered  patience. 
John — who  knew,  what  I  myself,  as  I  have  said,  did  not 
learn  for  years,  concerning  my  father's  former  history. 

"  Sir,  you  mistake  ;  Phineas  has  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  this  matter.  He  is  altogether  blameless.  So  am 
I  too,  if  you  heard  all." 

"Tell  me  all  ;  honor  is  bold — shame  only  is  silent." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  199 

"  I  feel  no  shame — an  honest  love  is  no  disgrace  to  any 
man.  And  my  confessing  it  harms  no  one,  Slie  neither 
knows  of  it  nor  returns  it." 

As  he  said  this,  slowly,  gravely,  John  moved  a  step  back 
and  sat  down.  His  face  was  in  shadow  ;  but  the  fire  shone 
on  his  hands,  tightly  locked  together,  motionless  as  stone. 

My  father  was  deeply  moved.  Heaven  knows  what 
ghosts  of  former  days  came  and  knocked  at  the  old  man's 
heart.  We  all  three  sat  silent  for  a  long  time,  then  my 
father  said, 

"  Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  had  rather  not  tell  you.  She  is  above  me  in  worldly 
station." 

"Ah!"  a  fierce  exclamation.  "  But  tliee  would'st  not 
humble  thyself — ruin  thy  peace  f<n-  life  ?  Thee  Avould'st 
not  marry  her  ?  " 

"  I  would— if  she  had  loved  me.  Even  yet,  if  by  any 
honorable  means  I  can  rise  to  her  level,  so  as  to  be  able  to 
win  her  love,  marry  her  I  will." 

That  brave  "I  will" — it  seemed  to  carry  its  own  fulfil- 
ment. Its  indomitable  resolution  struck  my  father  with 
wonder — nay,  with  a  sort  of  awe. 

"  Do  as  thee  thinks  best,  and  God  help  thee,"  he  said, 
kindly.  "  Mayest  thee  never  find  thy  desire  a  curse. 
Fear  not,  lad — I  will  keep  thy  counsel." 

'^'^I  knew  you  would." 

The  subject  ceased  :  my  fathers  manner  indicated  that 
he  wished  it  to  cease.  He  re-lit  his  pipe,  and  puffed  away, 
silently  and  sadly. 

Years  afterwards,  when  all  that  remained  of  Abel 
Fletcher  was  a  green  mound  beside  that  other  mound,  in 
the  Friends'  burying-ground  in  St.  Mary's  Lane,  I  learnt — 
what  all  Norton  Bury,  except  myself,  had  long  known— 
that  my  poor  mother,  the  young,  thoughtless  creature, 
whose  married  life  had  been  so  unhappy  and  so  brief — was 
by  birth  a  "  gentlewoman." 


CHAPTER  XYIL 

Mrs.  Jessop^s  drawing-room,  ruddy  with  fire-light, 
glittering  with  delicate  wax  candle-light ;  a  few  women 
in  pale-colored  gauzy  dresses,  a  few  men,  sublime  in  blue 
coats,  gold  buttons,  yellow  waistcoats,  and  smiles — this 
was  all  I  noticed  of  the  scene,  which  was  quite  a  novel 
scene  to  me. 

The  doctor's  wife  had  introduced  us  formally  to  all  her 
guests,  as  the  custom  then  was,  especially  in  these  small, 
cosy  supper-parties.  How  they  greeted  us  I  do  not  now 
remember  ;  no  doubt  with  a  kind  of  well-bred  formal  sur- 
prise ;  but  society  was  generally  formal  then.  My  chief 
recollection  is  of  Mrs.  Jessop's  saying  pointedly  and  aloud, 
though  with  a  smile  playing  under  the  corners  of  her  good 
little  mouth — 

"  Mr.  Halifax,  it  is  kind  of  you  to  come  ;  Lady  Caro- 
line Brithwood  Avill  be  delighted.  She  longs  to  make  your 
acquaintance." 

After  that,  everybody  began  to  talk  with  extraordinary 
civility  to  Mr.  Halifax. 

For  John,  he  soon  took  his  place  among  them,  with  that 
modest  self-possession  which  best  becomes  youth.  So- 
ciety's dangerous  waters  accordingly  became  smooth  to  him 
as  to  a  good  swimmer  who  knows  his  own  strength,  trusts 
it,  and  struggles  not. 

"^Mr.  Brithwood  and  Lady  Caroline  will  be  late,"  1 
overheard  the  hostess  sav.  ' "  I  think  I  told  you  that  jMiss 
March " 

But  here  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  the  missing 
guests  announced.  John  and  I  were  in  the  alcove  of  the 
window  ;  I  heard  his  breathing  behind  me,  but  I  dared  not 
look  at  or  speak  to  him.  In  truth,  I  was  scarcely  calmer 
than   he.      For,   though   it  must  be    clearly  understood  ] 

200 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  201 

never  was  "  in  love  "  with  any  woman,  still,  the  reflected 
glamour  of  those  Enderley  days  had  fallen  on  me.  It  often 
seems  now  as  if  I  too  had  passed  the  golden  gate,  and  looked 
far  enough  into  youth's  Eden  to  be  able  ever  after  to  weep 
with  those  that  wej)t  without  the  doors. 

No — she  was  not  there. 

We  both  sat  down.  I  know  not  if  I  was  thankful  or 
sorry. 

I  had  seldom  seen  the  'squire  or  Lady  Caroline.  He  was 
a  portly  young  man,  pinched  in  by  tight  light-colored 
garments.  She  was  a  lady  rather  past  her  first  youth,  but 
very  handsome  still,  who  floated  about  leaving  a  general 
impression  of  pseudo-Greek  draperies,  gleaming  arms  and 
shoulders,  sparkling  jewellery,  and  equally  si^arkling  smiles. 
These  smiles  seemed  to  fall  just  as  redundantly  upon  the 
family  physician,  whom,  by  a  rare  favor — for  so,  I  suppose, 
it  must  have  been — she  was  honoring  with  a  visit,  as  if 
worthy  Dr.  Jessop  were  the  noblest  in  the  land.  He,  poor 
man,  was  all  bows  and  scrapes,  and  pretty  speeches,  in  the 
which  came  more  than  the  usual  amount  of  references  to 
the  time  which  had  made  his  fortune,  the  day  when  her 
Majesty  Queen  Charlotte  had  done  him  the  honor  to  be 
graciously  taken  ill  in  passing  through  Xorton  Bur3\  Mrs. 
Jessop  seemed  to  wear  her  honors  as  hostess  to  an  earl's 
daughter,  very  calmly  indeed.  She  performed  the  or- 
dinary courtesies,  and  then  went  over  to  talk  with  Mr. 
Brithwood.  In  their  conversation,  I  sought  in  vain  the 
name  of  Ursula. 

So  it  ended — the  sickening  expectation  which  I  had  read 
in  the  lad's  face  all  day.  He  would  not  see  her — j^erhaps 
it  was  best.  Yet  my  heart  bled  when  I  looked  at  him. 
But  such  thoughts  could  not  be  indulged  in  now,  espe- 
cially as  Mrs.  Jessop's  quick  eyes  seemed  often  upon  him  or 
me,  with  an  expression  that  I  could  not  make  out  at  all, 
save  that  in  such  a  good  woman,  whom  Miss  March  so  well 
loved,  could  lurk  nothing  evil  or  unkindly. 

So  I  tried  to  turn  my  attention  to  the  Brithwoods.  One 
could  not  choose  but  look  at  her,  this  handsome  Lady 
Caroline,  whom  half  Norton  Bury  adored^  the  other  half 


202  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

pursed  up  their  lips  at  the  mention  of — but  these  were  of 
the  number  she  declined  to  '"know."  All  that  she  did 
know — all  that  came  within  her  influence,  were  irresistibly 
attracted,  for  to  please  seemed  part  of  her  nature.  To- 
night, nearly  every  one  present  stole  gradually  into  the 
circle  round  her  ;  men  and  women  alike  charmed  by  the 
fascination  of  her  ripe  beauty,  her  lively  m  inner,  her  ex- 
quisite smile  and  laugh. 

I  wondered  what  John  thought  of  Lady  Caroline  Brith- 
wood.  She  could  not  easily  see  him,  even  though  her  acute 
glance  seemed  to  take  in  everything  and  everybody  in  the 
room.  But  on  her  entrance  John  had  drawn  back  a  little, 
and  our  half-dozen  of  fellow-guests,  who  had  been  convers- 
ing with  him,  crept  shyly  out  of  his  way  ;  as  if,  now  the 
visible  reality  appeared,  they  were  aghast  at  the  great  gulf 
that  lay  between  John  Halifax  the  tanner  and  the  Brith- 
woods  of  the  Mythe.  A  few  even  looked  askance  at  our 
hostess,  as  though  some  terrible  judgment  must  fall  upon 
poor  ignorant  Mrs.  Jessop,  who  had  dared  to  amalgamate 
such  opposite  ranks. 

So  it  came  to  pass,  that  while  everybody  gathered  round 
the  Brithwoods,  John  and  I  stood  alone,  and  half  concealed 
by  the  window. 

Very  soon  I  heard  Lady  Caroline's  loud  whisper — 

"  Mrs.  Jessop,  my  good  friend,  one  moment.  Where  is 
your  'jetine  heros,'  '  Vliomme  dii i^eupJeV  I  do  not  see 
him.  Does  he  wear  clouted  shoes  and  woollen  stockings  ? 
— Has  he  a  broad  face  and  turned-up  nose,  like  your 
'  pay  sans  Anglais  ? '  " 

"  Judge  for  yourself,  my  lady — he  stands  at  your  elbow. 
Mr.  Halifax,  let  me  present  you  to  Lady  Caroline  Brith- 
wood." 

If  Lord  Luxmore's  fair  daughter  ever  looked  confounded 
in  her  life,  she  certainly  did  at  this  minute. 

''  Lni  f  Mon  Dieu  I  Lui !  "  And  her  shrug  of  amaze- 
ment was  stopped,  her  half-extended  hand  drawn  back. 
No,  it  was  quite  impossible  to  patronize  John  Halifax. 

He  bowed  gravely,  she  made  a  gracious  courtesy  ;  they 
met  on  equal  terms,  a  lady  and  gentleman. 


JOHIS"    IT  A  L]  FAX.  203 

Soon  her  lively  manner  returned.  She  buckled  on  lier 
spurs  for  new  conquest,  and  left  the  already  vanquished 
gentilities  of  Norton  Bury  to  amuse  themselves  as  they 
best  might. 

''  I  am  enchanted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Halifax  ;  I  adore  '  le 
peuple.'  Especially," — with  a  sly  glance  at  her  husband, 
who,  with  Tory  Dr.  Jessop,  was  vehemently  exalting  Mr, 
Pitt,  and  abusing  the  First  Consul,  Bonaparte, — "espe- 
cially le  peuj)le  FranQciis.     Me  comjrrenez  vous?" 

"  Madame,  je  vons  comprend.s.^' 

Her  ladyship  looked  surprised,  French  was  not  very 
common  among  the  honest  trading  class,  or  indeed  any  but 
the  higher  classes  in  England. 

''  But,"  Jolni  continued,  "  I  must  dissent  from  Lady 
Caroline  Brithwood,  if  she  mingles  the  English  people 
with  '  le  pei(2:)Jc  FrauQais.'  They  arc  a  very  dilferent  class 
of  beings." 

"  Ah,  piT  ira,  fa  ira  " — she  laughed,  Inimming  beneath 
her  breath  a  few  notes  out  of  that  terrible  song,  ''But 
you  know  French — let  us  talk  in  that  language  ;  we  shall 
horrify  no  one  then," 

"  I  cannot  speak  it  readily  ;  I  am  chiefly  self-taught." 

"  The  best  teaching,  Mon  Dien  !  Truly  you  are  made 
to  be  •  u)i  liiro  ' — just  the  last  touch  of  grace  that  a 
woman's  hand  gives — had  you  ever  a  Avoman  for  your 
friend  ? — and  you  would  be  complete.  But  I  cannot  flatter 
■ — plain,blunt  honesty  for  me.  You  must — you  shall  be — 
'  Vhomme  du  peuple.'  Were  you  born  such  ? — Who  were 
your  parents  ?  " 

"  I  saw  John  hesitate  ;  I  knew  how  rarely  he  ever  uttered 
those  names  written  in  the  old  Bible — how  infinitely  sacred 
they  were  to  him.  Could  he  blazon  them  out  now,  to 
gratify  this  woman's  idle  curiosity  ? 

"Madame,"  he  said  gravely,  "  I  was  introduced  to  you 
simply  as  Jolm  Halifax,  It  seems  to  me  that  so  long  as  I 
do  no  discredit  to  it,  the  name  suffices  to  the  world," 

"  Ah — I  see  !  I  see  !  "  But  he,  with  his  downcast  eyes, 
did  not  detect  the  meaning  smile  that  just  flashed  in  hers, 
was  changed  into  a  tone  of  soft  sympathy.      "  You  are 


304  JOHJSr    HALIFAX. 

right  ;  rank  is  nothing — a  cold,  glittering  marble,  with  no 
soul  under.  Give  me  the  rich  flesh-and-blood  life  of  the 
people.  Liherte — -fraternite — egalite.  I  would  rather  be  a 
gamin  in  Paris  streets,  than  my  brother  William  at  Lux- 
more  Hall." 

Thus  talked  she,  sometimes  in  French,  sometimes  in 
English,  the  young  man  answering  little.  She  only  threw 
her  shining  nets  abroad  the  more  ;  she  seemed  determined 
to  please.  And  Nature  fitted  her  for  it.  Even  if  not  born 
an  earl's  daughter.  Lady  Caroline  would  have  been  every- 
where the  magic  centre  of  any  society  wherein  she  chose  to 
move.  ISTot  that  her  conversation  was  brilliant  or  deep, 
but  she  said  the  most  frivolous  things  in  a  way  that  made 
them  appear  witty  ;  and  the  grand  art,  to  charm  by  ap- 
pearing charmed,  was  hers  in  perfection.  She  seemed  to 
float  altogether  ujion  and  among  the  pleasantness  of  life  ; 
pain,  either  endured  or  inflicted,  was  to  her  an  impos- 
sibility. 

Thus  her  character  struck  me  on  this  first  meeting,  and 
thus,  after  many  years,  it  strikes  me  still.  I  look  back  up- 
on what  she  appeared  that  evening — lovely,  gay,  attractive — 
in  the  zenith  of  her  rich  maturity.  What  her  old  age  was, 
the  world  knows  or  thinks  it  knows.  But  heaven  may  be 
more  merciful — I  cannot  tell.  Whatever  is  now  said  of  her 
I  can  only  say,   "Poor  Lady  Caroline." 

It  must  have  indicated  a  grain  of  pure  gold  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  gold-seeming  dross,  that,  from  the  first  moment 
she  saAv  him,  she  liked  John  Halifax. 

They  talked  a  long  time.  She  drew  him  out,  as  a  well- 
bred  woman  always  can  draw  out  a  young  man  of  sense. 
He  looked  pleased  ;  he  conversed  well.  Had  he  forgotten  ? 
No ;  the  restless  wandering  of  his  eyes  at  the  slightest 
sound  in  the  room,  told  how  impossible  it  was  he  should 
forget.  Yet  he  comported  himself  bravely,  and  I  was 
proud  that  Ursula's  kindred  should  see  him  as  he  was. 

"  Lady  Caroline  (her  ladyship  turned,  with  a  slightly 
bored  expression,  to  her  intrusive  hostess),  I  fear  we  must 
give  up  all  expectation  of  our  young  friend  to-night." 

"  I  told  you  so.     Post-travelling  is  very  uncertain,  and 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  205 

the  Batli  roads  are  not  guod.     Have  you  ever  visited  Bath 
Mr.  Halifax  ?  " 

"  But  she  is  surely  long  on  the  road/'  pursued  Mrs. 
Jessop,  rather  anxiously.     "  What  attendance  had  she  ?  " 

"  ller  own  maid,  and  our  man  Laplace.  Nay,  don't  be 
alarmed,  excellent  and  imiMwlgnuvernante  !  I  assure  you 
your  fair  ex-pupil  is  quite  safe.  "Yhe  furore  ahout  her  has 
considerahly  abated  siiice  the  heiress-hunters  at  Bath  dis- 
covered the  melancholy  fact  that  Miss  March " 

'^  Pardon  nie,"  interrupted  the  other;  "we  are  among 
strangers.  I  assure  you,  I  am  quite  satisfied  about  my  dear 
child." 

"What  a  charming  thing  is  affectionate  fidelity,"  ob- 
served her  ladyship,  turning  once  more  to  John,  with  a 
sweet,  lazy  dropping  of  the  eyelids. 

The  young  man  only  bowed.  They  resumed  their  con- 
versation— at  least,  she  did,  talking  volubly  ;  satisfied  with 
monosyllabic  answers. 

It  was  now  almost  supper-time — held  a  glorious  hour  at 
Norton  Bury  parties.  People  began  to  look  anxiously  to 
the  door. 

''  Before  we  adjourn,"  said  Lady  Caroline,  "I  must  do 
what  it  will  be  difficult  to  accomplish  after  supper  ;"  and 
for  the  first  time  a  sharp,  sarcastic  tone  jarred  in  her 
smooth  voice.  "  I  must  introduce  you  especially  to  my 
husband.     Mr.  Brithwood?" 

"  Madam."  lie  lounged  up  to  her.  They  were  a  diverse 
pair.  She,  in  her  well-preserved  beauty,  and  Gallic  artificial 
grace — he,  in  his  coarse,  bloated  youth,  coarser  and  worse 
than  the  sensualism  of  middle  age. 

"  ]Vlr.  Brithwood,  let  me  introduce  you  to  a  new  friend 
of  mine." 

The  'squire  bowed,  rather  awkwardly  ;  proving  the  truth 
of  what  Norton  Bury  often  whispered,  that  Richard  Brith- 
wood  was  more  at  home  with  grooms  than  gentlemen. 

"  He  belongs  to  this  your  town — you  must  have  heard  of 
him,  perhaps  met  liim." 

'•'I  have  moi'e  than  once  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
Mr.  Brithwood,  but  he  has  doubtless  forgotten  it." 


206  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

''  By  Jove  !  I  have.  What  might  your  name  be, 
sir?"' 

"  John  Halifax." 

"  Wliat,  Halifax,  the  tanner  ?"' 

"  The  same.'' 

"  Phew  ! " — He  began  a  low  whistle,  and  turned  on  his 
heel. 

John  changed  color  a  little.  Lady  Caroline  laughed — a 
thoughtless,  amused  laugh,  with  a  jDleasant  murmur  of 
"  Bete  !  " — "  Anglais  f  " — Nevertheless,  she  whispered  her 
husband — 

"^  Mon  ami — you  forget  ;  I  have  introduced  you  to  this 
gentleman." 

''  Gentleman,  indeed  !  Pooh  !  rubbish  !  Lady  Caroline 
- — I'm  busy  talking." 

"  And  so  are  we  most  pleasantly.  I  only  called  you  as  a 
matter  of  forjn,  to  ratify  my  invitation.  Mr.  Halifax  will, 
I  hope,  dine  with  us  next  Sunday." 

"  The  devil  he  will  ! " 

"  Eichard — you  hurt  me  !  " — with  a  little  scream,  as  she 
pushed  his  rough  fingers  from  her  arm,  so  soft,  and  round, 
and  fair. 

"  Madam,  you  must  be  crazy.  The  young  man  is  a 
tradesman — a  tanner.     Not  fit  for  mt/  societ}^" 

'^  Precisely  ;  I  invite  him  for  my  own." 

But  the  whispers  and  responses  were  alike  unheeded  by 
their  object.  For,  at  the  doorway,  entering  with  Mrs. 
Jessop,  was  a  tall  girl  in  deep  mourning.  AYe  knew  her — 
we  both  knew  her — our  dream  at  Enderle}- — our  Nut- 
browne  Mayde. 

John  was  near  to  the  door — their  eyes  met.  She  bowed 
=— he  returned  it.  He  was  very  pale.  For  Miss  March, 
her  face  and  neck  were  all  in  a  glow.  Neither  sjioke,  nor 
offered  more  than  this  passing  acknowledgment,  and  she 
moved  on. 

She  came  and  sat  down  beside  me,  accidental]}^,  I  believe  ; 
but  when  she  saw  me,  she  held  out  her  hand.  We  ex- 
changed a  word  or  two — her  manner  was  unaltered  ;  but 
she  spoke  hurriedly,  and  her  fingers  had  their  old  nervous 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  20? 

twitch.  She  said,  this  meeting  was  to  her  "  unexpected/' 
but  "she  was  very  ghid  to  see  me." 

So  she  sat,  and  I  looked  sideways  at  her  dropped  eyes — 
her  forehead  with  its  coronet  of  chestnut  curls.  How 
would  he  bear  the  sight — he  of  whose  heart  mine  was  the 
mere  faint  echo  ?  Yet  truly  an  echo,  repeating  with  cruel 
faithfulness  every  throb. 

He  kept  his  position,  a  little  aloof  from  the  Brithwoods, 
who  were  holding  a  slight  altercation — though  more  of 
looks  than  words.  John  heeded  them  not.  I  was  sure, 
though  he  had  never  looked  directly  towards  us,  that  he 
had  heard  every  syllable  Miss  March  said  to  me. 

The  'squire  called  across  the  room,  in  a  patronizing  tone  : 
"  My  good  fellow  —  that  is,  ahem  !  I  sav,  young  Hali- 
fax ?  " 

"  "Were  you  addressing  me,  Mr.  Brithwood  ?  " 

"^  I  was.  I  want  a  quiet  word  or  two — between  our- 
selves." 

'^Certainly." 

They  stood  face  to  face.  The  one  seemed  uncomfort- 
able, the  other  was  his  natural  self — a  little  graver,  per- 
haps, as  if  he  felt  what  was  coming,  and  prepared  to  meet 
it  knowing  in  whose  presence  he  had  to  prove  himself — 
what  Richard  Brithwood,  with  all  his  broad  acres  could 
never  be — a  gentleman. 

Few  could  doubt  that  fact,  who  looked  at  the  tAvo  young 
men,  as  all  Avere  looking  now. 

"  On  my  soul,  it's  awkward — I'll  call  at  the  tan-yard  and 
explain." 

"I  had  ■•'ather  you  would  explain  here." 

"Well  then,  though  it's  a  confounded  unpleasant  thing 
to  say — and  I  really  wish  I  had  not  been  brought  into  such 
a  position — you'll  not  heed  my  wife's  nonsense  ?" 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Come,  it's  no  use  running  to  cover  in  that  way.  Let's 
be  open  and  plain.  I  mean  no  otfence.  You  may  be  a 
very  respectable  young  man  for  aught  I  know,  still  rank  is 
rank.  Of  course.  Doctor  Jessop  asks  Avhom  he  likes  to  his 
house — and,  by  George  !  I'm  always  civil  to  everybody — 


308  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

but  really,  in  spite  of  my  lady's  likings,  I  can't  well  invite 
you  to  my  table  I  " 

"  Nor  could  I  humiliate  myself  by  accepting  any  such 
invitation. " 

He  said  the  words  distinctly,  so  that  the  whole  circle 
might  have  heard,  and  was  turning  away,  when  Mr.  Britli- 
wood  fired  up — as  an  angry  man  does  in  a  losing  game. 

"  Humiliate  yourself  !  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  Wouldn't 
you  be  only  too  thankful  to  crawl  into  the  houses  of  your 
betters,  anyhow,  by  hook  or  by  crook  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  I  know 
you  would.  It's  always  the  way  with  you  common  folk, 
you  rioters,  you  revolutionists.  By  the  Lord  !  I  wish  you 
were  all  hanged." 

The  young  blood  rose  fiercely  in  John's  cheek,  but  he 
restrained  himself.  ''  Sir,  I  am  neither  rioter  nor  revolu- 
tionist. " 

"  But  you  are  a  tradesman.  You  used  to  drive  Fletcher's 
cart  of  skins." 

"I  did." 

"  And  are  you  not — I  remember  you  now — the  very  lad 
the  tanner's  lad,  that  once  pulled  us  ashore  from  the  eger 
— cousin  March  and  me  ?  " 

I  heard  a  quick  exclamation  beside  me,  and  saw  Ursula 
listening  intently — I  had  not  noticed  how  intently  till  now. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  John,  waiting  for  his  answer.  It 
came. 

"  Your  memory  is  correct ;  I  was  that  lad." 

"  Thank'ee  for  it  too.  Lord  I  what  a  jolly  life  I  should 
have  missed  !  You  got  no  reward,  though.  You  threw 
away  the  guinea  I  offered  you  ;  come,  I'll  make  it  twenty 
guineas  to-morrow." 

The  insult  was  too  much.  "  Sir,  you  forget  that  whatever 
we  may  have  been,  to-night  Ave  meet  as  equals." 

'^  Equals!" 

"■  As  guests  in  the  same  house — most  certainly  for  the 
time  being,  equals." 

Richard  Brithwood  stared,  literally  dumb  with  fury. 
The  standers-hy  were  dumb  too.  thougli  such  fracas  were 
then  not  uncommon  even  in  drawing-rooms,  and  in  women's 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  209 

presence,  especially  with  men  of  Mr.  Brithwood's  stamp. 
His  wife  seemed  quite  used  to  it.  She  merely  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  hummed  a  note  or  two  of  "  ^a  //•«."  It 
irritated  the  husband  beyond  all  bounds. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  my  lady  !  What,  because  a  'pren- 
tice-lad once  saved  my  life,  and  you  choose  to  patronize 
him  as  you  do  many  another  vagabond,  with  your  cursed 
liberty  and  equality,  am  I  to  liave  him  at  my  table,  and 
treat  him  as  a  gentleman  ?     P)y ,  madam,  never  I" 

He  spoke  savagely  and  loud.  Julm  was  silent ;  he  had 
locked  his  hands  together  convulsively  ;  but  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  his  blood  was  at  boiling  heat,  and  that,  did  lie  once 
slip  the  leash  of  his  passions,  it  would  go  hard  with  Richard 
Brithwood. 

The  latter  came  up  to  him  with  clenched  fist.  "Now 
mark  me,  you — you  vagabond  I  " 

Ursula  March  crossed  the  room,  and  caught  his  arm,  her 
eyes  gleaming  fire. 

"  Cousin,  in  my  presence  this  gentleman  shall  be  treated 
as  a  gentleman.     He  was  kind  to  my  fatlier." 

"  Curse  your  father  ! " 

John's  right  hand  burst  free  ;  he  clutched  the  savage  by 
the  shoulder. 

"  Be  silent.     You  had  better." 

Brithwood  shook  off  the  grasp,  turned  and  struck  him  ; 
that  last  fatal  insult,  which  offered  from  man  to  man,  in 
those  days,  could  only  be  wiped  out  with  blood. 

John  staggered.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  as  if  he 
would  have  sprung  on  his  adversary  and  felled  him  to  the 
ground — but — he  did  it  not. 

Some  one  whispered,  "  He  won't  fight.     He  is  a  Quaker." 

"  No  !  "  he  said,  and  stood  erect  ;  though  he  was  ghastly 
pale,  and . his  voice  sounded  hoarse  and  strange — "But  I 
am  a  Christian.  I  shall  not  return  blow  for  blow  ;  I  am  a 
Christian." 

It  was  a  new  doctrine  ;  foreign  to  the  practice,  if  familiar 

to  the  ear,  of  Christian  Norton  Bury.     No  one  answered 

him  ;  all  stared  at  him  ;  one  or  two  sbeered  off  from  him 

with  contemptuous  smiles.     Then  Ursula  March  stretched 

14 


210  JOHN-    HALIFAX. 

out  her  friendly  hand.  John  took  it,  and  grew  calm  in  a 
moment. 

There  arose  a  murmur  of  "•■  Mr.  Brithwood  is  going." 

"  Let  him  go  ! '"  Miss  March  cried  ;  anger  still  glowing  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Not  so — it  is  not  right.  I  will  speak  to  him.  May  I  ?  " 
John  softly  unloosed  her  detaining  hand,  and  went  up  to 
Mr.  Brithwood.  "  Sir,  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  leave 
this  house — I  am  leaving  it.  You  and  I  sliall  not  meet 
again  if  I  can  help  it." 

His  proud  courtesy,  his  absolute  dignity  and  calmness, 
eomiDletely  overwhelmed  his  blustering  adversary  ;  who 
gazed  open-mouthed,  while  John  made  his  adieu  to  his 
host  and  to  those  he  knew.  The  women  gathered  round 
him — woman's  instinct  is  usually  true.  Even  Lady  Caro- 
line, amid  a  flutter  of  regrets,  declared  she  did  not  believe 
there  was  a  man  in  the  universe  who  would  have  borne  so 
charmingly  such  a  "  degradation." 

At  the  word  Miss  March  fired  up.  "  Madam,"  she  said, 
in  her  impetuous  young  voice,  "  no  insult  offered  to  a  man 
can  ever  degrade  him ;  the  only  real  degradation  is  when 
he  degrades  himself." 

John,  passing  out  at  the  doorway,  caught  her  words. 
As  he  quitted  the  room,  no  crowned  victor  ever  wore  a 
look  more  joyful,  more  proud. 

After  a  minute,  we  followed  him  ;  the  Doctors  wife  and 
I.     Bvit  now  the  pride  and  joy  had  both  faded. 

"^Mrs.  Jessop,  you  see  I  am  riglit,"  he  murmured.  ''I 
ought  not  to  have  come  here.  It  is  a  hard  world  for  such 
as  I.     I  shall  never  conquer  it — never." 

"  Yes — you  will."  And  Ursula  stood  by  him,  with  crim- 
soned cheek  and  eyes  no  longer  flashing,  but  fearless  still. 

Mrs.  Jessop  put  her  arm  round  the  you7ig  girl.  ''I  also 
think  you  need  not  dread  tlie  world,  Mr.  Halifax,  if  you 
always  act  as  you  did  to-night ;  though  I  grieve  tliat  things 
should  have  happened  thus,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  this  my 
child." 

"  Have  I  done  any  harm  ?  oh  !  tell  me,  have  I  done  anj 
harm  ?  " 


JOHlSr   HALIFAX.  211 

"  No  !  **  cried  Ursula,  with  the  old  impetuosity  kindling 
anew  in  every  feature  of  her  noble  face.  "  You  have  but 
showed  me  what  I  reniemljer  all  my  life — that  a  Christian 
only  can  be  a  true  gentleman." 

She  understood  him  ; — he  felt  she  did  ;  understood  him 
as,  if  a  man  be  understood  by  one  woman  in  tlie  world,  he 
— and  she  too — is  strong,  safe,  and  happy,  Tliey  grasped 
hands  once  more,  and  gazed  unhesitatingly  into  each  other's 
eyes.  All  human  passion  for  the  time  being  set  aside, 
these  two  recognized  each  in  the  other  one  aim,  one  pur- 
pose, one  faith  ;  something  higher  than  love,  something 
better  than  happiness.  It  must  have  been  a  blessed  moment 
for  both. 

Mrs.  Jessop  did  not  interfere.  She  had  herself  known 
what  true  love  was,  if,  as  gossips  said,  she  had  kept  constant 
to  our  worthy  doctor  for  thirty  years.  But  still  she  was  a 
prudent  wonum,  not  unused  to  the  world. 

"You  must  go  now,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  gently 
on  John's  arm. 

"lam  going.     But  she — what  will  she  do  ?" 

"Never  mind  me.  Jane  will  take  care  of  me,"  said 
Ursula,  winding  her  arms  round  her  old  governess,  and 
leaning  her  cheek  down  on  Mrs.  Jessop's  slioulder. 

We  had  never  seen  Miss  ]\Iarch  show  fondness,  that  is, 
caressing  fondness,  to  any  one  before.  It  revealed  her  in  a 
new  light ;  betraying  the  depths  there  were  in  her  nature  : 
infinite  depths  of  softness  and  of  love. 

John  watched  her  for  a  minute  ;  a  long,  wild,  greedy 
minute,  then  whispered  hoarsely  to  me,   "  I  must  go." 

We  made  a  hasty  adieu,  and  went  out  together  into  the 
night-  -the  cold,  bleak  night,  all  blast  and  storm. 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

Fob  weeks  after  tlien,  we  went  on  in  our  usual  way, 
Ursula  March  living  within  a  stone's  throw  of  us.  She  had 
left  her  cousin's,  and  come  to  reside  Avith  Dr.  Jessop  and 
his  wife. 

It  was  u  very  hard  trial  for  John. 

Neither  of  us  were  again  invited  hy  Mrs.  Jessop.  We 
could  not  blame  her  ;  she  held  a  precious  charge,  and  Nor- 
ton Bury  was  a  horrible  place  for  gossij).  Already  tale 
after  tale  had  gone  aljroad  about  Miss  March's  "  ingrati- 
tude "  to  her  relations.  Already  tongue  after  tongue  had 
rejaeated,  in  every  possible  form  of  lying,  the  anecdote  of 
'^ young  Plalifax  and  the  'squire."  Had  it  been  "young 
Halifax  and  Miss  March,"  I  truly  believe  John  could  not 
have  borne  it. 

As  it  was,  though  he  saw  her  constantly,  it  was  always 
by  chance — a  momentary  glimpse  at  the  window,  or  a  jDass- 
ing  acknowledgment  in  the  street.  I  knew  quite  well 
when  he  had  thus  met  her — whether  he  mentioned  it  or 
not — knew  by  the  wild,  troubled  look,  which  did  not  wear 
off  for  hours. 

I  watched  him  closely,  day  by  day,  in  an  agony  of  doubt 
and  pain. 

For,  though  he  said  nothing,  a  great  change  was  creep- 
ing over  '^'the  lad,"  as  1  still  fondly  called  him.  His 
strength,  the  glory  of  a  young  man,  was  going  from  him — 
he  was  becoming  thin,  weak,  restless-eyed.  That  healthy 
energy  and  gentle  composure,  whicli  had  been  so  beautiful 
in  him  all  his  life  through,  were  utterly  lost. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  thee,  David  ?"  said  I  to  him  one 
evening,  when  he  had  come  in,  looking  worse  than  usual— 
I  knew  why  ;  for  Ursula  and  her  friend   had  just  passed 

212 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  213 

our  house,  taking  their  pleasant  walk  in  the  spring  twi- 
light.    "  Thou  art  very  ill,  I  fear." 

"  l^ot  at  all.  There  is  not  the  least  thing  the  matter 
with  me.     Do  let  me  alone." 

Two  minutes  afterwards,  he  begged  my  pardon  for  those 
sharp-spoken  words.  "  It  was  not  f]ieei\i?it  spoke,  John," 
I  said. 

"  No,  you  are  right,  it  was  not  I.  It  was  a  sort  of  devil 
that  lodges  here  : "  he  touched  his  breast.  "'  The  chamber 
he  lives  in  is  at  times  a  burning  hell." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  tone  of  great  anguish.  What  could  I 
answer  ?     Nothing. 

We  stood  at  the  window,  looking  idly  out.  The  chestnut 
trees  in  the  Abbey-yard  were  budding  green  ;  there  came 
that  faint,  sweet  sound  of  children  at  play,  which  one 
hears  as  the  days  begin  to  lengthen. 

"  It's  a  lovely  evening,"  he  said. 

'"  John  !  "  I  looked  him  in  the  face.  He  could  not  palm 
off  that  kind  deceit  upon  me.  "You  have  heard  some- 
thing about  her  ?  " 

"1  have,"  he  groaned.     "  She  is  leaving  Norton  Bury." 

"  Thank  God  1"'  I  muttered. 

John  turned  fiercely  upon  me — but  only  for  a  moment. 
''Perhaps  I  too  ought  to  say,  'Thank  God.''  This  could 
not  have  lasted  long,  or  it  would  have  made  me — what  I 
pray  His  mercy  to  save  me  from,  or  to  let  me  die.  Oh,  lad, 
if  I  could  only  die  !" 

He  bent  down  over  the  window-sill,  crushing  his  forehead 
on  his  hands. 

"John,"  I  said,  in  this  depth  of  despair  snatching  at  an 
equally  desperate  hope,  "what  if,  instead  of  keejiing  this 
silence,  you  were  to  go  to  her  and  tell  her  all  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  of  that :  a  noble  thought,  worthy  of  a 
poor  'prentice  lad  !  Why,  two  several  evenings  I  have 
been  insane  enough  to  w^alk  to  Dr.  Jessop's  door,  which  I 
have  nev^er  entered,  and — mark  you  well  !  they  have  never 
asked  me  to  enter,  since  that  niglit.  lUit  each  time  ere  I 
knocked,  my  senses  came  back,  and- 1  went  home — luckily 
having  made  myself  neither  a  fool  nor  a  knave." 


314  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

There  was  no  answer  to  this,  either.  Alas  !  I  knew  as 
well  as  he  did,  that  in  the  eye  of  the  world's  common  sense, 
for  a  young  man  not  twenty-one,  a  tradesman's  apprentice, 
to  ask  the  hand  of  a  young  gentlewoman,  uncertain  if  she 
loved  him,  was  most  utter  folly.  Also,  for  a  penniless 
youth  to  sue  a  lady  with  a  fortune,  even  though  it  was  (the 
Brithwoods  took  care  to  puhlish  the  fact)  smaller  than  was 
at  first  supposed — would,  in  the  eye  of  the  world's  honor, 
be  not  very  much  unlike  knavery.  There  was  no  help — 
none. 

^'  David,"  I  groaned,  "  I  would  you  had  never  seen  her." 

"  Hush  ! — not  a  word  like  that.  If  you  heard  all  I  hear 
of  her — daily — hourly — her  unselfishness,  her  energy,  her 
generous,  warm  heart  !  It  is  blessedness  even  to  have 
known  her.  She  is  an  angel — no,  better  than  that,  a 
woman  !  I  did  not  want  her  for  a  saint  in  a  shrine — I 
wanted  her  as  a  help-meet,  to  walk  with  me  in  my  daily 
life,  to  comfort  me,  strengthen  me,  nuike  me  pure  and 
good.  I  could  be  a  good  man  if  I  had  her  for  my  wife. 
Now—" 

He  rose  and  walked  rapidly  up  and  down.  His  looks 
were  becoming  altogether  wild. 

"Come,  Phineas,  suj^jDose  we  go  to  meet  her  up  the  road 
— as  I  meet  her  almost  every  day.  Sometimes  she  merely 
bends  and  smiles,  sometimes  she  holds  out  her  little  hand, 
and  'hopes  I  am  quite  well.'  And  then  they  pass  on,  and 
I  stand  gaping  and  staring  after  them  like  an  idiot.  There 
— look — there  they  are  now." 

Ay  :  walking  leisurely  along  the  other  side  of  the  road — 
talking  and  smiling  to  one  another,  in  their  own  merry, 
familiar  way,  were  Mrs.  Jessop  and  Miss  March. 

They  were  not  thinking  of  us,  not  the  least.  Only  just 
ere  tney  passed  our  house,  Ursula  turned  slightly  round, 
and  looked  behind  ;  a  quiet,  maidenly  look,  with  the  smile 
still  lingering  on  her  mouth.  She  saw  nothing,  and  no  one, 
for  John  had  pulled  me  from  the  window,  and  placed  him- 
self out  of  sight.  So,  turning  back  again,  she  went  on  her 
.  way.     They  both  disappeared. 

"Now,  Phineas,  it  is  all  ended." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  215 

'^  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

*'  I  have  looked  on  her  for  the  hist  time.'' 

"Nay — she  is  not  going  yet." 

"  But  I  am — fleeing  from  the  devil  and  his  angels.  Hur- 
rah,  Phineas,  lad  !  We'll  have  a  merry  night.  To-morrow 
I  am  away  to  Bristol,  to  set  sail  for  America." 

He  wrung  my  hands,  with  a  long,  loud,  half-mad  laugh, 
and  then  dropped  heavily  on  a  chair. 

A  few  hours  after,  he  was  lying  on  my  bed,  struck  down 
by  the  first  real  sickness  he  had  ever  known.  It  was  appa- 
rently a  low  aguish  fever,  which  had  been  much  about 
Norton  Bury  since  the  famine  of  last  year.  At  least, 
so  Jael  said ;  and  she  was  a  wise  doctoress,  and  had  cured 
many.  He  would  have  no  one  else  to  attend  him — seemed 
terrified  at  the  mere  mention  of  Dr.  Jessop.  I  opposed  him 
not  at  first,  for  well  I  knew,  Avhatever  the  proxinuite  cause 
of  his  sickness  might  be,  its  root  was  in  that  mental  pang 
which  no  doctors  could  cure.  So  I  trusted  to  the  blessed 
quiet  of  a  sick-room — often  so  healing  to  miser}' — to  Jacl's 
nursing,  and  his  brother's  love. 

After  a  few  days,  Ave  called  in  a  physician — a  stranger 
from  Coltham — who  pronounced  it  to  be  this  Norton  Bury 
fever,  caught  through  living,  as  he  still  persisted  in  doing, 
in  his  old  attic,  in  that  unhealtliy  alley  where  was  Sally 
Watkins'  house.  It  must  have  been  coming  on,  the  doctor 
said,  for  a  long  time  ;  but  it  had  no  dou])t  now  reached  its 
crisis.     He  would  be  better  soon. 

But  he  did  not  get  better.  Days  slid  into  weeks,  and 
still  he  lay  there,  never  com2:)laining,  scarcely  appearing  to 
suffer,  except  from  the  wasting  of  the  fever  ;  yet  when  I 
spoke  of  recovery,  he  *'  turned  his  face  unto  the  wall  " — 
weary  of  living. 

Once,  when  he  had  lain  thus  a  whole  morning,  hardly 
speaking  a  word,  I  began  to  feel  growing  palpable,  the 
truth  which  day  by  day  I  had  thrust  behind  me  as  some 
intangible,  impossible  dread— that  ere  noAV,  people  had 
died  of  mere  soul-sickness,  without  any  bodily  disease.  I 
took  up  his  poor  hand  that  lay  on  the  counterpane  ; — once, 
at  Enderley,  he  had  regretted  its  somewhat  coarse  strength  : 


216  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

now,  Ursula's  own  was  not  thinner  or  whiter.  He  drew  it 
back. 

"  Oh,  Phineas,  lad,  don't  touch  me — only  let  me  rest." 

The  weak,  querulous  voice — that  awful  longing  for  rest ! 
What  if,  despite  of  all  the  jihysician's  assurances,  he  might 
be  sinking,  sinking — my  friend,  my  hope,  my  pride,  all  my 
comfort  in  this  life — passing  from  it  and  from  me  into 
another,  where,  let  me  call  never  so  wildly,  he  could  not 
answer  me  any  more,  nor  come  back  to  me  any  more. 

Oh,  God  of  mercy  !  if  I  were  to  be  left  in  this  world 
without  my  brother  ! 

I  had  many  a  time  thought  over  the  leaving  him,  going 
quietly  away  when  it  should  jolease  the  Giver  of  all  breath 
to  recall  mine,  falling  asleep,  encompassed  and  sustained 
by  his  love  until  the  last ;  then  a  burthen  no  longer,  leav- 
ing him  to  work  out  a  glorious  life,  whose  rich  Aveb  should 
include  and  bring  to  beautiful  perfection  all  the  poor 
broken  threads  in  mine.  But  now,  if  this  should  be  all 
vain,  if  he  should  go  from  me,  not  I  from  him — I  slid  down 
to  the  ground,  to  my  knees,  and  the  dumb  cry  of  my  agony 
went  up  on  high. 

How  could  I  save  him  ? 

There  seemed  but  one  way  ;  I  sprung  at  it ;  stayed  not 
to  think  if  it  were  right  or  wrong,  honorable  or  dishonor- 
able. His  life  hung  in  the  balance,  and  there  was  but 
one  way  ;  besides,  had  I  not  cried  unto  God  for  helj)  ? 

I  put  aside  the  blind,  and  looked  out  of  doors.  For 
weeks  I  had  not  crossed  the  threshold  ;  I  almost  started 
to  find  that  it  was  spring.  Everything  looked  lovely  in 
the  colored  twilight ;  a  blackbird  was  singing  loudly  in 
the  Abbey  trees  across  the  way  ;  all  things  were  fresh  and 
glowing,  laden  with  the  hope  of  the  advancing  year.  And 
there  he  lay,  on  his  sick-bed,  dying  ! 

All  he  said,  as  I  drew  the  curtain  back,  was  a  faint 
moan — ' '  No  light  !  I  can't  bear  the  light !     Do  let  me  rest ! " 

In  half-an-liour,  without  saying  a  word  to  human  being, 
I  was  on  my  way  to  Ursula  March. 

She  sat  knitting  i]i  the  summer-parlor  alone.  The 
doctor  was  out ;  Mrs.  Jessop  I  saw  down  the  long  garden; 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  217 

bonneted  and  shawled,  busy  among  her  gooseberry-bushes 
■ — so  we  were  safe. 

As  I  have  said,  Ursula  sat  knitting,  but  her  eyes  had  a 
soft  dreaminess.  My  entrance  had  evidently  startled  her, 
and  driven  some  sweet,  shy  thought  away. 

But  she  met  me  cordially — said  she  was  glad  to  see  me 
— that  she  had  not  seen  either  of  us  lately  ;  and  the  knit- 
ting-pins began  to  move  quickly  again. 

Those  dainty  fingers — that  soft,  tremulous  smile — I 
could  liave  hated  her  ! 

"  No  wonder  you  did  not  see  us,  Miss  March  ;  John  has 
boen  very  ill,  is  ill  now — almost  dying." 

I  hurled  the  words  at  her,  sharp  as  javelins,  and  watched 
to  see  them  strike. 

They  struck — they  wounded  ;  I  could  see  her  shiver. 

"  111  ! — and  no  one  ever  told  me  ?  "' 

"  You  ?  How  could  it  affect  you  ?  To  me,  now  " — and 
my  savage  words,  for  they  were  savage,  broke  down  in  a 
burst  of  misery — "  Nothing  in  this  world  to  me  is  worth  a 
straw,  in  comparison  with  John.     If  he  dies — " 

I  let  loose  the  flood  of  my  misery.  I  dashed  it  over  her, 
that  she  might  see  it — feel  it ;  that  it  might  enter  all 
the  fair  and  sightly  chambers  of  her  happy  life,  and  make 
them  desolate  as  mine.     For  was  she  not  the  cause  ? 

Forgive  me  !  I  was  cruel  to  thee,  Ursula  ;  and  thou  wert 
so  good — so  kind  ! 

She  rose,  came  to  me,  and  took  my  hand.  Hers  was 
very  cold,  and  her  voice  trembled  much. 

"  Be  comforted.  He  is  young,  and  God  is  very  merci- 
ful." 

She  could  say  no  more,  but  sat  down,  nervously  twist- 
ing and  untwisting  her  fingers.  There  was  in  her  looks 
a  wild  sorrow — a  longing  to  escape  from  notice  ;  but  mine 
held  her  fast,  mercilessly,  as  a  snake  holds  a  little  bird. 
She  sat  cowering,  almost  like  a  bird,  a  poor,  broken- 
winged,  helpless  little  bird — whom  the  storm  has  over- 
taken. 

Eising,  she  made  an  attempt  to  quit  the  room. 

' '  I  will  call  Mrs.  Jessop  ;  she  may  be  of  use—" 


218  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  She  cannot.     Stay  !  " 

"  Further  advice,  perhaps  ?  Doctor  Jessop — you  must 
want  help — " 

"  None  save  that  which  will  never  come.  His  bodily 
sickness  is  conquered — it  is  his  mind.  Oh,  Miss  March  ! " 
— and  I  looked  up  at  her  Hke  a  wretch  begging  for  life — 
"  do  you  not  know  of  what  my  brother  is  dying  ?  " 

"  Dying  !  "  A  long  shudder  passed  over  her,  from  head 
to  foot — but  I  relented  not. 

"  Think — a  life  like  his,  that  might  be  made  a  blessing 
to  all  he  loves — to  all  the  world — is  it  to  be  sacrificed  thus  ? 
It  may  be — I  do  not  say  it  will — but  it  may  be.  While  in 
health,  he  could  fight  against  this — this  which  I  must  not 
speak  of  ;  but  now  his  health  is  gone.  He  cannot  rally. 
Without  some  change,  I  see  clearly,  even  I,  Avho  love  him 
better  than  any  one  can  love  him — " 

She  stirred  a  little  here. 

"  Far  better,^'  I  repeated  ;  "  for  while  John  does  not  love 
me  best,  he  to  me  is  more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
Yet  even  I  have  given  up  liope,  unless — But  I  have  no 
right  to  say  more." 

There  was  no  iieed.  She  began  to  understand.  A  deep, 
soft  red,  sun-rise  color,  dawned  all  over  her  face  and  neck, 
nay,  tinged  her  very  arms — her  delicate,  bare  arms.  She 
looked  at  me  once — just  once — with  .a  mute  but  keen  in- 
quiry. 

"  It  is  the  truth.  Miss  March — ay,  ever  since  last  year. 
You  will  respect  it  ?     You  will,  you  shall  respect  it  ?" 

She  bent  her  head  in  acquiescence — that  was  all.  She 
had  not  uttered  a  single  syllable.  Her  silence  almost 
drove  me  wild. 

"  What  !  not  one  word  ?  not  one  ordinary  message  from 
a  friend  to  a  friend  ? — one  who  is  lying  ill,  too  !  " 

Still  silence. 

"  Better  so  !  "  I  cried,  made  desperate  at  last.  "  Better, 
if  it  must  be,  that  he  should  die  and  go  to  the  God  who 
made  him — ay,  made  him,  as  you  shall  yet  see,  too  noble  a 
man  to  die  for  any  woman's  love." 

I  left  her — left  her  where  she  sat,  and  went  my  way. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  219 

Of  the  hours  that  followed,  the  less  I  say  the  better.  My 
miud  was  in  a  tumult  of  pain,  in  which  right  and  wrong 
were  strangely  confused,  I  could  not  decide — I  can  scarcely 
decide  now — whether  what  1  liad  done  ought  to  have  been 
done  ;  I  only  know  that  I  did  it — did  it  under  an  impulse 
so  sudden  and  impetuous  that  it  seemed  to  me  like  the 
guidance  of  Providence.  All  I  could  do  afterwards  was  to 
trust  the  result  where  we  say  we  trust  all  things,  and  yet 
are  for  ever  disquieting  ourselves  in  vain — we  of  little 
faith  ! 

I  have  said,  and  I  say  again,  that  I  believe  every  true 
marriage — of  which  there  is  probably  one  in  every  five 
thousand  of  conjugal  unions — is  brought  about  by  heaven, 
and  heaven  only  ;  and  that  all  human  influence  is  powerless 
either  to  make  or  to  mar  that  ha])py  end.  Therefore,  to 
heaven  I  left  this  marriage,  if  such  it  was  destined  to  be. 
And  so,  after  a  season,  I  calmed  myself  enough  to  dare 
entering  that  quiet  sick-chamber,  where  no  one  ever  entered 
but  Jael  and  me. 

The  old  woman  met  me  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in  gently,  Phineas ;  I  do  think  there  is  a 
change. " 

A  change  ! — that  awful  word  !  I  staggered  rather  than 
walked  to  John's  bed-side.    • 

Ay,  there  was  a  change,  but  not  that  one — which  made 
my  blood  run  cold  in  my  veins  even  to  think  of.  Thank 
God  for  evermore  for  His  great  mercies — not  that  change  ! 

John  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  New  life  shone  in  his  eyes, 
in  his  whole  aspect.  Life  and — no,  not  hope,  but  some- 
thing far  better,  diviner. 

"Phineas,  how  tired  you  look  ;  it  is  time  you  were  in 
bed/' 

The  old  way  of  speaking — the  old.  natural  voice,  as  I  had 
not  heard  it  for  weeks.  I  flung  myself  by  the  bed-side — 
perhaps  I  wept  outright — God  knows  !  It  is  thought  a 
shame  for  a  man  to  weep  ;  yet  One  Man  wept,  and  that  too 
was  over  His  friend — His  brother. 

"You  must  not  grieve  over  me  any  more,  dear  lad  ;  to- 
morrow, please  God  !  I  mean  to  be  quite  well  again." 


220  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

Amidst  all  my  joy,  I  marvelled  over  what  could  be  the 
cause  of  so  miraculous  a  change. 

"  You  would  smile  if  I  told  you — only  a  dream." 

'No,  I  did  not  smile  ;  for  I  believed  in  the  Euler  of  all 
our  spirits,  sleeping  or  waking. 

"^  A  dream,  so  curious,  that  I  have  scarcely  lost  the  im- 
pression of  it  yet.  Do  you  know,  Phineas,  she  has  been 
sitting  by  me,  just  where  you  sit  now." 

"She?" 

"Ursula." 

If  I  could  express  the  tone  in  which  he  uttered  the  word, 
which  had  never  fallen  from  his  lips  before — it  was  always 
either  "  Miss  March,"  or  the  impersonal  form  used  by  all 
lovers  to  disguise  the  beloved  name — "  Ursula/'  spoken  as 
no  man  speaks  any  woman's  name  save  the  one  which  is  the 
music  of  his  heart,  which  he  foresees  shall  be  the  one  fire- 
side tune  of  his  life,  ever  familiar,  yet  ever  sweet. 

"  Yes,  she  sat  there  talking.  She  told  me  she  knew  I 
loved  her — loved  her  so  much  that  I  was  dying  for  her  ; 
that  it  was  very  wrong  ;  that  I  must  rise  up  and  do  my 
work  in  the  world — do  it  for  heaven's  sake,  not  for  hers  ; 
that  a  true  man  should  live,  and  live  nobly,  for  the  woman 
he  loves— it  is  only  a  coward  who  dies  for  her." 

I  listened,  wonder-struck^— for  these  were  the  very  words 
that  Ursula  ^laroh  might  have  uttered  ;  the  very  spirit  that 
seemed  to  shine  in  her  eyes  that  night — the  last  night  she 
and  John  spoke  to  one  another.  I  asked  him  if  there  was 
any  more  of  tlie  dream  ? 

"  Nothing  clear.  I  thought  we  were  on  the  Flat  at  En- 
derley,  and  I  was  following  her  ;  whether  I  reached  her  or 
not,  I  cannot  tell.  And  whether  I  ever  shall  reach  her,  I 
cannot  tell.  But  this  I  know,  Phineas,  I  will  do  as  she 
bade  me  ;  I  will  arise  and  walk." 

And  so  he  did.  lie  slept  quietly  as  an  infant  all  that 
night.  Xext  morning  I  found  him  up  and  dressed.  Look- 
ing like  a  spectre,  indeed  ;  but  with  health,  courage,  and 
hope  in  his  eyes.  Even  my  father  noticed  it,  when  at  din- 
ner-time, with  Jael's  help — poor  old  Jael  !  how  proud  she 
was — John  crawled  down  stairs. 


JOHN    HAT.TFAX.  221 

"  Why,  thee  art  picking  up,  hid  I  Thee'lt  he  a  man 
again  in  no  time." 

"\  hope  so.  And  a  better  man  than  ever  I  was  be- 
fore." 

"  Thee  might  be  better,  and  thee  might  be  worse.  Any- 
how, we  conidn't  do  without  thee,  Jolin.— Hey,  Phineas  ! 
who's  been  meddling  witli  my  spectacles  ?  " 

The  old  man  turned  his  back  upon  us,  and  busily  read 
his  newspaper,  upside  down.  • 

"We  never  had  a  happier  meal  in  our  house  than  that 
dinner. 

In  the  afternoon,  my  father  stayed  at  home — a  rare  thing 
for  him  to  do  ;  nay,  more  ;  he  went  and  smoked  his  peace- 
ful pipe  in  the  garden.  Jolni  lay  on  an  extempore  sofa, 
made  of  tlirce  of  our  high-backed  chairs  and  the  window- 
sill.  I  read  to  him — trying  to  keep  his  attention,  and 
mine  too,  solely  to  the  Great  Plague  of  London  aiifl  Daniel 
Defoe.  When,  just  as  I  was  stealthily  glancing  at  his 
face,  fancying  it  looked  whiter  and  more  sunken,  that  his 
smile  was  fading,  and  his  thoughts  were  Avandering — Jael 
burst  in. 

"John  Halifax,  there  be  a  woman  asking  for  thee  ?" 

No,  John — no  need  for  that  start — that  rush  of  im- 
petuous blood  to  thy  poor  thin  cheek,  as  if  there  were 
but  one  woman  in  all  the  world.  No,  it  Avas  only  Mrs. 
Jessop. 

At  sight  of  him,  standing  up,  tall,  and  gaunt,  and  pale, 
the  good  lady's  eyes  brimmed  over. 

"  You  have  been  very  ill,  my  poor  boy  !  Forgive  me — 
but  I  am  an  old  woman,  you  know.     Lie  down  again." 

With  gentle  force  she  compelled  him  and  sat  down  by  his 
side. 

"I  had  no  idea — why  did  you  not  let  us  know — the 
doctor  and  me  ?     How  long  have  you  been  ill  ?  " 

"•■  I  am  quite  Avell  now — I  am,  indeed.  I  shall  be  about 
again  to-morroAv,  shall  I  not,  Phineas  ?"  and  he  looked 
eagerly  to  me  for  confirmation. 

I  gave  it,  firmly  and  proudly.  I  Avas  glad  she  should 
know  it — glad  she  should  see  that  the  priceless  jcAvel  of  his 


222  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

heart  would  not  lie  tossing  in  the  mire,  becaiise  a  hanghty 
girl  scorned  to  wear  it.  Glad,  that  she  might  one  day  find 
out  there  lived  not  the  woman  of  whom  John  Halifax  was 
not  worthy. 

"But  you  must  be  very  careful — very  careful  of  your- 
self, indeed." 

"  He  will,  Mrs.  Jessop.  Or,  if  not,  he  has  many  to  take 
care  of  him.  Many  to  whom  his  life  is  most  precious  and 
most  idear. " 

I  spoke — -perhaps  more  abruptly  than  I  ought  to  have 
spoken  to  that  good  old  lady — but  her  gentle  answer  seemed 
at  once  to  understand  and  forgive  me. 

"  I  well  believe  that,  Mr.  Fletcher.  And  I  think  Mr. 
Halifax  hardly  knows  how  much  we — we  all— esteem  him." 
And  with  a  kind  motherly  gesture  she  took  John's 
hand.  "  You  must  make  haste  and  get  well  now.  My 
hiisband  )vill  come  and  see  you  to-morrow.  For  Ursula — " 
here  she  carefully  busied  herself  in  the  depths  of  her 
pocket^"  my  dear  child  sends  you  this." 

It  was  a  little  note — uiisealed.  The  superscription  was 
simj)ly  his  name,  in  her  clear,  round,  fair  hand-writing — 
"John  Halifax.^' 

His  fingers  closed  over  it  convulsively.  "  I — she  is — 
very  kind."  The  words  died  away — the  hand  which 
grasped,  ay,  far  more  than  a  minute,  the  unopened  letter 
trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf. 

"  Yes,  hers  is  a  grateful  nature,"  observed  jMrs.  Jessop, 
sedulously  looking  at  and  speaking  to  me.  "  I  would  not 
wish  it  otherwise — I  would  not  wish  her  to  forget  those 
whose  worth  she  proved  in  her  season  of  trouble." 

I  was  silent.  The  old  lady^s  tongue  likewise  failed  her. 
She  took  off  her  glove — wiped  a  finger  across  each  eye-lash 
—and  sat  still. 

"  Have  you  read  your  little  note,  Mr.  Halifax  ?" 

No  answer. 

"  I  will  take  your  message  back.  She  told  me  what  she 
had  said  to  you." 

Ay,  all  the  world  might  have  read  those  simple  Imes  : 


john"  halifax.  223 

'^'  My  dear  Friend, 

"  T  did  not  know  till  yesterday  that  yoii  had  been 
ill.  I  have  not  forgotten  how  kind  you  were  to  my  poor 
father.  I  should  like  to  come  and  see  you,  if  you  would 
allow  me. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"Uksula  March." 

This  was  all  the  note.  I  saw  it,  more  tluin  thirty  years 
afterwards,  yellow  and  faded,  .in  the  corner  of  his  pocket- 
book. 

''  Well,  what  sliall  I  say  to  my  child  ?" 

"  Say  " — he  lialf  rose,  struggling  to  sjieak — '^  ask  lier  to 
come." 

He  turned  his  head  towards  the  window,  and  the  sunshiae 
glittered  on  two  great  drops,  large  as  a  cliild's  tear. 

Mrs.  Jessop  went  away.  And  now  for  a  long  liour  we 
waited — scarcely  moving.  John  lay,  liis  eyes  sometimes 
closed,  sometimes  fixed  dreamily  on  tlie  bit  of  blue  sky  tliat 
shone  out  aliove  the  iron  railings,  between  the  Abbey  treeS. 
More  than  once,  they  wandered  to  the  little  letter  wliich 
lay  buried  in  his  hands.     He  felt  it  there — that  was  enough. 

My  father  came  in  from  the  garden,  and  settled  to  his 
afternoon  doze  ;  but  I  think  John  hardly  noticed  him — nor 
I.  My  poor  old  father  !  Yet  we  were  all  young  once — let 
youth  enjoy  its  day  ! 

At  length  Ursula  came.  She  stood  at  the  parlor-door, 
rosy  with  walking — a  vision  of  youth  and  candid  innocence, 
which  blushed  not,  nor  liad  need  to  blush,  at  any  intent  or 
act  that  was  sanctified  by  the  law  of  God,  and  by  her  own 
heart. 

John  rose  to  meet  her.  They  did  not  speak,  but  only 
clasped  hands. 

He  was  not  strong  enough  for  disguises  noAV — in  his  first 
look  she  might  have  seen,  have  felt,  that  I  had  told  her  the 
truth.  For  hers — but  it  dropped  down,  down,  as  Ursula 
Marches  clear  glance  had  never  dropped  before.  Then,  J 
knew  how  all  would  end. 


224  JOHlSr    HALIFAX. 

Jacl's  voice  broke  in  sharply.  ''Abel  Fletcher,  the 
doctor's  wife  is  wanting  thee  down  in  the  kitchen-garden, 
and  she  says,  her  green  gooseberries  bean't  half  as  big  as 
our  n. 

My  father  awoke — rubbed  his  eyes — became  aware  of  a 
lady's  presence — rubbed  them  again,  and  sat  staring. 

John  led  Ursula  to  the  old  man's  chair. 

"  Mr.  Fletcher,  this  is  Miss  March,  a  friend  of  mine, 
who,  hearing  I  was  ill,  out  of  her  great  kindness " 

His  voice  faltered.  Miss  March  added,  in  a  low  tone, 
with  downcast  eyelids — 

"  I  am  an  orjihan,  and  he  was  kind  to  my  dear  father." 

Abel  Fletcher  nodded — adjusted  his  spectacles — eyed  her 
all  over — and  nodded  again  ;  slowly,  gravely,  with  a  sat- 
isfied inspection.  His  hard  gaze  lingered,  and  softened 
Avhile  it  lingered,  on  that  young  face,  whereon  Avas  Avritten 
simjilicity,  dignity,  truth. 

"H"  thee  be  a  friend  of  John's,  welcome  to  my  house. 
Wilt  thee  sit  down  ?" 

Offering  his  hand,  with  a  mixture  of  kindness  and  cere- 
monious grace  that  I  had  never  before  seen  in  my  Quaker 
father,  he  placed  her  in  his  own  arm-chair.  How  well 
I  remember  her  sitting  there,  in  her  black  silk  pelisse, 
trimmed  with  the  white  fur  she  w^as  so  fond  of  Avearing, 
and  her  riding-hat,  the  soft  feathers  of  which  drooped  on 
her  shoulder,  trembling  as  she  trembled.  For  she  did 
tremble  very  much. 

Gradually,  the  old  man's  perception  opened  to  the  facts 
before  him.     He  ceased  his  sharp  scrutiu}-,  and  half  smiled. 

"Wilt  thee  stay  and  have  a  dish  of  tea  with  us  ?" 

So  it  came  to  pass,  I  hardly  remember  how,  that  in  an 
hour's  space  our  parlor  beheld  the  strangest  sight  it  had 

beheld  since Ah,  no  wonder  that  wdien  she  took  her 

place  at  the  table's  foot,  and  gave  him  his  dish  of  tea  Avith 
her  own  hand — her  pretty  ringed  lady's  hand — my  old 
father  started,  as  if  it  had  been  another  than  Miss  March 
who  was  sitting  there.  No  Avonder  that,  more  than  once, 
catching  the  sound  of  her  Ioav,  quiet,  gentlcAvoman-like 
speech,  different  from  any  female  voices  here>  he  turned 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  225 

round  suddenly  with  a  glance,  half-scared,  half-eager,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  ghost  from  the  grave. 

But  Mrs.  Jessop  engaged  him  in  talk,  and,  woman-hater 
as  he  was,  he  could  not  resist  the  pleasantness  of  the  doc- 
tor's little  wife.  The  doctor,  too,  came  in  after  tea,  and 
the  old  folk  all  settled  themselves  for  a  cosy  chat,  taking 
very  little  notice  of  us  three. 

Miss  March  sat  a  little  table  near  the  window,  admiring 
some  hyacinths  that  Mrs.  Jessop  had  brought  us.  A  wise 
present ;  for  all  Norton  Bury  knew  that  if  Abel  Fletcher 
had  a  soft  place  in  his  heart,  it  was  for  his  garden  and  his 
flowers.  These. were  very  lovely  ;  in  color  and  scent  deli- 
cious to  one  who  liad  been  long  ill.  John  lay  looking  at 
them  and  at  her,  as  if,  oblivious  of  past  and  future,  his 
whole  life  were  absorbed  into  that  one  exquisite  hour. 

For  me — where  I  sat,  I  do  not  clearly  know,  nor  prob- 
ably did  any  one  else. 

''There."  said  Miss  March  to  herself,  in  atone  of  almost 
childish  satisfaction,  as  she  arranged  the  last  hyacinth  to 
her  liking. 

"They  are  very  beautiful,"  I  heard  John's  voice  answer, 
with  a  strange  tremble  in  it.  ''It  is  growing  too  dark  to 
judge  of  colors  ;  but  the  scent  is  delicious,  even  here." 

"  I  could  move  the  table  closer  to  you." 

"  Thank  you — let  me  do  it — will  you  sit  down  ?  " 

She  did  so,  after  a  very  slight  hesitation,  by  John's  side. 
Neither  spoke,  but  sat  quietly  there,  with  the  sunset  light 
on  their  two  heads,  softly  touching  them  both,  and  then  as 
softly  melting  away. 

"  There  is  a  new  moon  to-night,"  Miss  March  remarked, 
appositely  and  gravely. 

"  Is  there  ?  Then  I  have  been  ill  a  whole  month.  For  I 
remember  noticing  it  through  the  trees  the  night  when " 

He  did  not  say  what  night,  and  she  did  not  ask.  To  such 
a  very  unimportant  conversation  as  they  were  apparently 
holding,  my  involuntary  listening  could  do  no  harm. 

"You  will  be  able  to  Avalk  out  soon,  I  hope,"  said  Miss 
March  again.     "  Norton  Bury  is  a  pretty  town." 

John  asked,  suddenly — "  Are  you  going  to  leave  it  ?" 

IS 


226  JOHN"   HALIFAX. 

"  Xot  yet — I  do  not  know  for  certain — perhaps  not  at 
all,  I  mean."  she  added,  hurriedly,  "that  being  indepen- 
dent, and  having  entirely  separated  from,  and  been  given 
up  by  my  cousins,  I  prefer  residing  with  Mrs.  Jessop  alto- 
gether."' 

''  Of  course — most  natural."  The  words  were  formally 
spoken,  and  John  did  not  speak  again  for  some  time. 

''  I  hope,''  said  Ursula,  breaking  the  pause,  and  then 
stopping,  as  if  her  own  voice  frightened  her. 

"  What  do  you  hope  ?  " 

"  That  long  before  this  moon  has  grown  old,  you  will  be 
quite  strong  again." 

"  Thank  you  !  I  hope  so  too.  I  have  need  for  strength, 
God  knows  !  "     He  sighed  heavily. 

"  And  you  will  have  what  you  need,  so  as  to  do  your 
work  in  the  Avorld.     You  must  not  be  afraid." 

"  I  am  not  afraid.  I  shall  bear  my  burthen  like  other 
men.     Everyone  has  some  inevitable  burthen  to  bear." 

"So  I  believe." 

And  now  the  room  darkened  so  fast,  that  I  could  not  see 
them  ;  but  their  voices  seemed  a  great  way  off,  as  the  chil- 
dren's voices  jilaying  at  the  old  well-head  used  to  sound  to 
me  when  I  lay  under  the  brow  of  the  Flat — in  the  dim 
twilights  at  Enderley, 

"  I  intend,"  John  said,  as  soon  as  I  am  able,  to  leave 
Norton  Bury,  and  go  abroad  for  some  time." 

"Where?" 

"  To  America.  It  Ls  the  best  country  for  a  young  man 
who  has  neither  money,  nor  kindred,  nor  position — nothing, 
in  fact,  but  his  own  right  hand  with  Avhich  to  carve  out  his 
own  fortunes — as  I  will,  if  I  can." 

She  murmured  something,  about  this  being  "  quite  right." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so."  But  his  voice  had  resumed 
that  formal  tone  which  ever  and  anon  mingled  strange!}' 
with  its  low,  deep  tenderness.  "  In  any  case,  I  must  quit 
England.     I  have  reasons  for  so  doing." 

"  What  reasons  ?  " 

The  question  seemed  to  startle  John — he  did  not  reply 
at  once. 


JOHIS"    HALIFAX.  227 

"If  you  wish,  I  will  tell  you  ;  in  or;ler  that,  should  1 
ever  come  back — or  if  I  should  not  come  hack  at  all,  you 
who  were  kind  enough  to  be  my  frieml.  Mill  know  I  did  not 
go  away  from  mere  youthful  recklessness,  or  love  of  change." 

He  Avaited,  apparently  for  some  answer — but  it  came  not, 
and  he  continued  : 

"  I  am  going,  because  there  has  befallen  me  a  great 
troul)le,  which,  while  I  stay  here,  I  cannot  get  free  from 
or  overcome.  I  do  not  wish  to  sink  under  it — I  had  rather, 
as  you  said,  'do  my  work  in  the  woi-ld,'  as  a  man  ought. 
No  man  has  a  right  to  say  unto  his  i\r:ikcr,  '  ]\[y  burthen  is 
heavier  than  I  can  bear.'     Do  you  not  think  so  ?" 

"I  do." 

"  Do  you  not  think  I  am  right  in  thus  meeting,  and  try- 
ing to  conquer,  an  inevitable  ill  ?  " 

''  7s  it  inevitable  ?  " 

''Hush  !"  John  answered,  wildly.  *' Don't  reason  with 
me — you  cannot  judge — you  do  not  know.  It  is  enough 
that  I  must  go.  If  I  stay  I  shall  liecouTC  unworthy  of  my- 
self, unwortliy  of Forgive  me.  I  have  no  right  to  talk 

thus  ;  but  you  called  me  '  friend,'  and  I  would  like  you 
to  think  kindly  of  me  always.  Because — because — "  And 
his  voice  shook — broke  down  utterly.  "  God  love  thee  and 
take  care  of  thee,  wherever  I  may  go  ! " 

''John,  stay  !" 

It  was  but  a  low,  fahit  cry,  like  that  of  a  little  bird.  But 
he  heard  it — felt  it.  In  the  silence  of  the  dark  she  crept 
up  to  him,  like  a  3'Oung  bird  to  its  mate,  and  he  took  her 
into  the  shelter  of  his  love  for  evermore.  At  once,  all  was 
made  clear  between  them  ;  for  whatever  the  world  might 
say,  they  were  in  the  sight  of  heaven  equal,  and  she  received 
as  much  as  she  gave. 

^  ^  ^  4:  ^  ^ 

When  Jael  brought  in  lights,  the  room  seemed  to  me,  at 
first,  all  in  a  wild  dazzle.  Then  I  saw  John  rise,  and  Miss 
March  with  him.  Holding  her  hand,  he  led  her  across  the 
room.  His  head  Avas  erect,  his  eyes  shining — his  whole 
aspect  that  of  a  man  who  declares  before  all  the  world, 
"This  is  my  oivn." 


338  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"Eh?  "said  my  father,  gazing  at  them  from  over  his 
spectacles. 

John  spoke  brokenly,  "  We  have  no  parents,  neither  she 
nor  I.     Bless  her — for  she  has  promised  to  be  my  wife." 

And  the  old  man  blessed  her,  with  tears. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  I  HAEDLY  like  taking  thee  out  this  wet  day,  Phineas — ■ 
but  it  is  a  comfort  to  have  thee." 

Perhaps  it  was,  for  John  was  bent  on  a  trying  errand, 
lie  was  going  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Brithwood  of  tlie 
Mythe,  Ursuhi's  legal  guardian  and  trustee,  the  fact  tliat 
she  had  promised  liim  her  hand — him,  John  Halifax,  the 
tanner.  He  did  it — nay,  insisted  upon  doing  it — the  day 
after  he  came  of  age,  and  just  one  week  after  they  had 
been  betrothed — this  nineteenth  of  June,  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  one. 

We  reached  the  iron  gates  of  the  Mythe  House  ; — John 
hesitated  a  minute,  and  thenjJulled  the  bell  with  a  resolute 
hand. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we  stood  here,  John  ?  " 

"  I  do,  well  !  ■' 

But  soon  the  happy  smile  faded  from  his  lips,  and  left 
them  pressed  together  in  a  firm,  almost  painful  gravity. 
He  was  not  only  a  lover,  but  a  man.  xVnd  no  man  could 
go  to  meet, — what  he  knew  he  must  meet,  in  this  house, 
and  on  this  errand,  altogether  unmoved.  One  might  fore- 
see a  good  deal — even  in  the  knowing  side-glance  of  the 
servant,  whoin  he  startled  with  his  name,  "'Mr.  Halifax.'* 

'-  Mr.  Brithwood's  busy,  sir — better  come  to-morrow," 
suggested  the  man — evidently  knowing  enough  upon  his 
master's  affairs. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  him — but  I  must  see  Mr.  Brith- 
wood to-day." 

And  John  determinedly  followed  the  man  into  the  grand 
empty  dining-room,  where,  on  crimson  velvet  chairs,  we  sat 
and  contemjjlated  the  great  stag's  head  with  its  branching 
horns,  the  silver  flagons  and  tankards,  and  the  throstles 
hopping  outside  across  the  rainy  lawn  : — at  our  full  leisure 
too,  for  the  space  of  fifteen  minutes. 

229 


230  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  This  will  not  do/'  said  Jolm — quietly  enough,  though 
this  time  it  was  with  a  less  steady  hand  that  he  pulled  the 
bell. 

"  Did  you  tell  your  master  I  was  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir."  And  the  grin  with  which  the  footman  came 
in,  somehow  slid  away  from  his  mouth's  corners. 

"  How  soon  may  I  have  the  honor  of  seeing  him  ?  " 

"  He  says,  sir,  you  must  send  up  your  business  by  me.'' 

John  paused,  evidently  subduing  something  within  him 
— something  unworthy  of  Ursula's  lover — of  Ursula's  hus- 
band that  was  to  be. 

"  Tell  your  master  my  business  is  solely  with  himself, 
and  I  must  request  to  see  him.  It  is  important,  say,  or  I 
would  not  thus  intrude  upon  his  time." 

"^  Very  well,  sir." 

Ere  long,  the  man  brought  word  that  Mr.  Brithwood 
would  be  at  liberty,  for  five  minutes  o;ily,  in  the  justice 
room.  We  were  led  out,  crossing  the  courtyard  once 
more — where,  just  riding  out,  I  saw  two  ladies,  one  of  whom 
kissed  her  hand  gaily  to  John  Halifax — to  the  magistrate's 
office.  There,  safely  separated  from  his  own  noble  mansion, 
Mr.  Brithwood  administered  justice.  In  the  outer  room  a 
stout  young  fellow — a  poacher,  probably — sat  heavily  ironed, 
sullen  and  fierce  ;  and  by  the  door  a  girl  with  a  child  in  her 
arms,  and — God  pity  her  !  no  ring  on  her  finger — stood 
crying;  another  ill-looking  fellow,  maudlin  drunk,  with  a 
constable  by  him,  called  out  to  us  as  we  passed  for  "  a  drop 
o'  beer." 

These  were  the  people  whom  Eichard  Brithwood,  Es- 
quire, magistrate  for  the  county  of ,  had  to  judge 

and  punish,  according  to  his  own  sense  of  equity  and  his 
knowledge  of  his  country's  law. 

He  sat  behind  his  office-table,  thoroughly  magisterial, 
dictating  so  energetically  to  his  clerk  behind  him,  that 
we  had  both  entered,  and  John  had  crossed  the  room,  be- 
fore he  saw  us,  or  seemed  to  see. 

^^Mr.  Brithwood." 

*^0h — Mr.  Halifax.     Good-morning." 

John  returned  the  salutation,  which  was  evidently  meant 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  231 

to  show  that  the  giver  bore  no  grudge  ;  that,  indeed,  it  was 
impossible  so  dignified  a  personage  as  Eichard  Brithwood, 
Esquire,  in  his  public;  capacity,  too,  could  bear  a  grudge 
against  so  inferior  an  individual  as  John  Halifax. 

"  I  should  be  glad,  sir,  of  a  few  minutes'  speech  with 
you." 

"■  Certainly — certainly  ;  speak  on  ;  "  and  he  lent  a  mag- 
isterial ear. 

"Excuse  me,  my  business  is  private,"  said  John,  look- 
ing at  the  clerk. 

"  No  business  is  private  here,"  returned  the  'squire, 
haughtily. 

"  Then  shall  I  speak  with  you  elsewhere  ?  But  I  must 
have  the  honor  of  an  intei'view  with  vou,  and  immedi- 
ately." 

Whether  Mr.  Brithwood  was  seized  with  some  indefinite 
alarm,  he  himself  best  knew  why,  or  wliether  John's  man- 
ner irresistibly  compelled  him  to  civility,  as  the  stronger 
always  compels  the  weakoi-,  T  cannot  tell — but  he  signed  to 
the  clerk  to  leave  the  room. 

"  And,  Jones,  send  back  all  the  others  to  the  lock-up 
house  till  to-morrow.  Bless  my  life  !  it's  near  three  o'clock. 
They  can't  expect  to  keep  a  gentleman's  dinner  waiting — 
these  low  fellows." 

I  suppose  this  referred  only  to  the  culprits  outside  ;  at 
all  events,  we  chose  to  take  it  so. 

"■  Now — you,  sir — perhaps  you'll  dispatch  your  business  ; 
the  sooner  the  better." 

"  It  will  not  take  long.  It  is  a  mere  matter  of  form, 
which  nevertheless  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  be  the  first  to  in- 
form you.  Mr.  Brithwood,  I  have  the  honor  of  bearing  a 
message  to  you  from  your  cousin — Miss  Ursula  March." 

"  She's  nothing  to  me — I  never  wish  to  see  her  face 
again,  the — the  vixen  !  " 

''You  will  be  kind  enough,  if  you  please,  to  avoid  all 
such  epithets  ;  at  least,  in  my  hearing." 

''  Your,  hearing  !     And  pray  who  are  you,  sir  ?" 

"You  know  quite  well  who  I  am." 

"  Oh,  yes  !     And  how  goes  the  tanning  ?     Any  offers  in 


332  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

the  horse-flesli  line  ?  Always  liappy  to  meet  you  in  the 
way  of  business.  But  what  can  you  possibly  have  to  do 
with  me,  or  with  any  member  of  my  family  ?  " 

John  bit  his  lip  ;  the  'squire's  manner  Avas  extremely  gall- 
ing ;  more  so,  perhaps,  in  its  outside  civility  than  any  gross 
rudeness. 

"  Mr.  Brithwood,  I  was  not  speaking  of  myself,  but  of 
the  lady  whose  message  I  have  the  honor  to  bring  you." 

"That  lady,  sir,  has  chosen  to  put  herself  away  from  her 
family,  and  her  family  can  hold  no  further  intercourse  with 
her,"  said  the  'squire  loftily. 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,"  was  the  reply,  with  at  least  equal 
hauteur. 

"  Are  you  ?  And  pray  what  right  may  you  have  to  be 
acquainted  with  Miss  March's  private  concerns  ?  " 

"The  right — which,  indeed,  was  the  purport  of  her 
message  to  you — that  in  a  few  months  I  shall  become  her 
husband." 

John  said  this  very  quietly — so  quietly,  that,  at  first,  the 
'squire  seemed  hardly  to  credit  his  senses.  At  last,  he  burst 
into  a  hoarse  laugh. 

"  Well,  that  is  the  best  joke  I  ever  did  hear." 

"  Pardon  me  ;  I  am  perfectly  serious." 

"  Bah  !  how  much  money  do  you  want,  fellow  ?  A 
pretty  tale  !  you'll  not  get  me  to  believe  it —  ha  !  ha  ! 
She  wouldn't  be  so  mad.  To  be  sure,  women  have  their 
fancies,  as  we  know,  and  you're  a  likely  young  fellow  enough  ; 
but  to  marry  you " 

John  sprang  up — his  whole  frame  quivering  with  fury. 
"  Take  care,  sir  ;  take  care  how  you  insult  my  wife !  " 

He  stood  over  the  wretch — the  cowardly,  shrinking 
wretch— he  did  not  touch  him,  but  he  stood  over  him  till, 
terrified  out  of  his  life,  Eichard  Brithwood  gasped  out 
some  apology. 

"Sit  down — pray  sit  down  again.     Let  us  proceed  in  our 

business." 
John  Halifax  sat  down. 

"  So — my  cousin  is  your  wife.  I  think  you  were  saying  ?  " 
"  She  will  be,  some  months  hence.     We  were  engaged  a 


JOHK    HALIFAX.  233 

week  ago,  with  the  full  knowledge  and  consent  of  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Jessop,  her  nearest  friends." 

"  And  of  yours  ?"  asked  Mr.  Brithwood,  with  as  much 
sarcasm  as  his  blunt  wits  could  furnish  him. 

"  I  have  no  relatives." 

"  So  I  always  understood.  And  that  being  the  case,  may 
I  ask  the  meaning  of  the  visit  ?  Where  are  your  lawyers, 
your  marriage  settlements,  hey  ?  I  say  young  man — ha  ! 
ha  !  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  can  possibly  want  with 
me,  Miss  March's  trustee  ?" 

"  Nothing  whatever.  Miss  March,  as  you  are  aware,  is, 
by  her  father's  will,  left  perfectly  free  in  her  choice  of 
marriage  ;  and  she  has  chosen.  But  since,  under  certain 
circumstances,  I  wish  to  act  with  perfect  openness,  I  came 
to  tell  you  as  her  cousin  and  the  executor  of  this  will,  that 
she  is  about  to  become  my  wife." 

And  he  lingered  over  that  name,  as  if  its  very  utterance 
strengthened  and  calmed  him. 

"  May  I  inquire  into  those  '  certain  circumstances  ? " 
asked  the  other,  still  derisively. 

"  You  know  them  already.  Miss  March  has  a  fortune 
and  I  have  none  ;  and  though  I  wish  that  difference  were 
on  the  other  side — though  it  might  and  did  hinder  me  from 
seeking  her — yet  now  she  is  sought  and  won,  it  shall  not 
hinder  my  marrying  her." 

"  Likely  not,"  sneered  Mr.  Brithwood. 

John's  passion  was  rising  again. 

"  I  repeat,  it  shall  not  hinder  me.  The  world  may  say 
what  it  chooses  ;  we  follow  a  higher  law  than  the  world — 
she  and  I.  She  knows  me  ;  am  I  to  be  afraid  to  trust  her  ? 
Am  I  to  be  such  a  coward  as  not  to  dare  to  marry  the 
woman  I  love,  because  the  world  might  say  I  married  her 
for  her  money  ?  " 

He  stood,  his  clenched  hand  resting  on  the  table,  looking 
full  into  Eichard  Brithwood's  face.  The  'squire  sat  dum- 
founded  at  the  young  man's  vehemence. 

"  Your  pardon,"  John  added,  more  calmly.  "  Perhaps 
I  owe  her  some  pardon  too,  for  bringing  her  name  thus  into 
discussion  ;  but  I  wished  to  have  everything  clear  between 


234  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

myself  and  yon,  her  nearest  relative.  You  now  know  ex- 
actly  how  the  matter  stands.  I  will  detain  you  no  longer 
— I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"  But  I  have,"  roared  out  the  'squire  ;  at  length,  recover- 
ing himself,  seeing  his  opponent  had  quitted  the  field. 
"  Stop  a  minute." 

John  paused  at  the  door. 

"  Tell  Ursula  March  she  may  marry  you,  or  any  other 
vagabond  she  pleases — it's  no  business  of  mine.  But  her 
fortune  is  my  business,  and  it's  in  my  hands,  too.  Might's 
right,  and  possession's  nine-tenths  of  the  law.  Not  one 
penny  shall  she  get  out  of  my  fingers  as  long  as  I  can  keep 
hold  of  it." 

John  bowed,  his  hand  still  on  the  door.  "  As  you  please, 
Mr.  Brithwood.  That  svas  not  the  subject  of  our  interview. 
Good-morning. " 

And  we  were  away. 

Ee-crossing  the  iron  gates,  and  out  into  the  open  road, 
John  breathed  freely. 

"  That's  over — all  is  well." 

"  Do  you  think  what  he  threatened  is  true  ?  Can  he  do 
it?" 

"Very  likely;  don't  let  us  talk  about  that."  And  he 
walked  on  lightly,  as  if  a  load  Avere  taken  off  his  mind,  and 
body  and  soul  leaped  up  to  meet  the  glory  of  the  summer 
sunshine,  the  freshness  of  the  summer  air. 

'"^  0  !  what  a  day  this  is  ! — after  the  rain  too  !  How  she 
will  enjoy  it  ! " 

And  coming  home  through  Norton  Bury,  we  met  her 
walking  with  Mrs.  Jessojj.  No  need  to  dread  that  meeting 
now. 

Yet  she  looked  up,  questioning,  through  her  blushes.  Of 
course  he  had  told  her  where  we  were  going  to-day  ;  her 
who  had  a  right  to  know  every  one  of  his  concerns  now. 

"  Yes,  dear,  all  is  quite  right.     Do  not  be  afraid." 

Afraid,  indeed  !  Not  the  least  fear  was  in  those  clear 
eyes.     Nothing  but  perfect  content — perfect  trust. 

John  drew  her  arm  through  his.  "  Come,  we  need  not 
mind  Norton  Bury  now,"  he  said,  smiling. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  235 

So  they  two  walked  forward,  talking,  as  we  could  see, 
earnestly,  and  rather  seriously,  to  one  another  ;  while  Mrs, 
Jessop  and  I  followed  behind. 

"  Bless  their  dear  hearts  !  "  said  the  old  lady,  as  she  sat 
resting  on  the  stile  of  a  bean-field.  ''  Well,  we  have  all 
been  young  once." 

Not  all,  good  Mrs.  Jessop,  thought  I ;  not  all. 

Yet,  surely  it  was  most  pleasant  to  see  them,  as  it  is  to 
see  all  true  lovers — young  lovers,  too,  in  the  morning  of 
their  days.  Pleasant  to  see  written  on  every  line  of  their 
happy  faces  the  blessedness  of  Nature's  law  of  love — love 
begun  in  youth-time,  sincere  and  pure,  free  from  all  senti- 
mental shams,  or  follies,  or  shames — love  mutually  2'>lighted, 
the  next  strongest  bond  to  that  in  which  it  will  end,  and  is 
meant  to  end,  God's  holy  ordinance  of  marriage. 

We  came  back  across  the  fields  to  tea  at  Mrs.  Jessops'. 
It  was  John's  custom  to  go  there  almost  every  evening ; 
though  certainly  he  could  not  be  said  to  "  go  a-courting." 
Nothing  could  be  more  unlike  it  than  his  demeanor,  or  in- 
deed the  demeanor  of  both.  They  were  very  quiet  lovers, 
never  making  much  of  one  another  "before  folk."  No 
whispering  in  corners,  or  stealing  away  down  garden 
walks.  No  public  show  of  carresses — caresses  whose  very 
sweetness  must  consist  in  their  entire  sacredness  ;  at  least, 
/  should  think  so.  No  coquettish  exactions,  no  testing  of 
cither's  power  over  the  other,  in  those  perilous  small  quarrels 
which  may  be  the  renewal  of  passion,  but  are  the  death  of 
true  love. 

No,  our  young  coujile  were  well-behaved  always.  She 
sat  at  her  work,  and  he  made  himself  generally  pleasant, 
falling  in  kindly  to  the  Jessops'  household  ways.  But  what 
ever  he  was  about,  at  Ursula's  lightest  movement,  at  the 
least  sound  of  her  voice,  I  could  see  him  lift  a  quiet  glance 
as  if  always  conscious  of  her  presence  ;  her  who  was  the 
delight  of  his  eyes. 

To-night,  more  than  ever  before,  this  soft,  invisible  link 
seemed  to  be  drawn  closer  between  them,  though  they 
spoke  little  together,  and  even  sat  at  opposite  sides  of  the 
table  ;  but  whenever  their  looks  met,  one  could  trace  a  soft 


236  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

smiling  interchange,  full  of  trust,  and  peace,  and  joy.  He 
had  evidently  told  her  all  that  had  happened  to-day,  and 
she  was  satisfied. 

More,  perhaps,  than  I  was  ;  for  I  knew  how  little  John 
would  have  to  live  u]3on  besides  what  means  his  wife 
brought  him  ;  but  that  was  their  own  affair,  and  I  had  no 
business  to  make  jiublic  my  doubts  or  fears. 

We  all  sat  round  the  tea-table,  talking  gaily  together, 
and  then  John  left  us,  reluctantly  enough  ;  but  he  always 
made  a  point  of  going  to  the  tan-yard  for  an  hour  or  two 
in  my  father's  stead,  every  evening.  Ursula  let  him  out  at 
the  front  door  ;  this  was  her  right,  silently  claimed,  which 
nobody  either  Jested  at  or  interfered  with. 

When  she  returned,  and  perhaps  she  had  been  away  a 
minute  or  two  longer  than  was  absolutely  necessary,  there 
was  a  wonderful  brightness  on  her  young  face  ;  though  she 
listened  with  a  degree  of  attention  most  creditable  in  its 
gravity,  to  a  long  dissertation  of  Mrs.  Jessop's,  on  the  best 
and  cheapest  way  of  making  jam  and  pickles. 

*^' You  know,  my  dear,  you  ought  to  begin  and  learn  all 
about  such  things  now." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  March,  with  a  little  droop  of  the  head. 

"  I  assure  you" — turning  to  me — '*  she  comes  every  day 
into  the  kitchen — never  mind,  my  dear,  one  can  say  any- 
thing to  Mr.  Fletcher.  And  what  lady  need  be  ashamed 
of  knowing  how  a  dinner  is  cooked,  and  a  household  kept 
in  order  ? " 

"  Nay,  she  should  rather  bo  proud  ;  I  know  John  thinks 
so." 

At  this  answer  of  mine,  Ursula  half-smiled  ;  but  there 
was  a  color  in  her  cheek,  and  a  thoughtfulness  in  her  eyes, 
deeper  than  any  that  our  conversation  warranted  or  occa- 
sioned. I  was  planning  how  to  divert  Mrs.  Jessoii  from 
the  subject,  when  it  was  broken  at  once  by  a  sudden  en- 
trance, which  startled  us  all  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"  Stole  away  !  stole  away  !  as  my  husliand  would  say. 
Here  have  I  come  in  the  dusk,  all  through  the  streets,  to 
Dr.  Jessop's  very  door.  How  is  she  ?  where  is  she,  ma 
petite  ?  " 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  237 

"  Caroline  ! " 

"  Ah  !  come  forward.     I  haven't  seen  you  for  an  age/' 

And  Lady  Caroline  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks  in  her 
lively,  French  fashion,  which  Ursula  received  patiently, 
and  returned — no,  I  will  not  be  certain  whether  she  re- 
turned it  or  not. 

"  Pardon — how  do  yon  do,  Mrs.  Jessop,  my  dear  woman  ? 
What  trouble  I  have  had  in  coming  !  Are  you  not  glad  to 
see  me,  Ursula  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very."  In  that  sincere  voice  which  never  either 
falsified  or  exaggerated  a  syllable. 

"  Did  you  ever  expect  to  see  me  again  ?" 

"No,  certainly  I  did  not.  And  I  would  almost  rather 
not  see  you  now,  if " 

"  If  Eichard  Brithwood  did  not  approve  of  it  ?  Bah  ! 
what  notions  you  always  had  of  marital  supremacy.  So, 
ma  cliere,  you  are  going  to  be  married  yourself,  I  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Why,  how  quietly  you  seem  to  take  it !  The  news 
perfectly  electrified  me  this  morning.  I  always  said  that 
young  man  was  '  nn  Jieros  de  romuns  !  ^  Ma  foi !  this  is 
the  prettiest  little  episode  I  ever  heard  of.  Just  King 
Cophetua  and  the  beggar-maid — only  reversed.  How  do 
you  feel,  my  Queen  Cophetua  ?" 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you.  Caroline." 

"Neither  should  I  you,  for  the  tale  seems  incredible. 
Only  you  gave  me  such  an  honest  '  yes,'  and  I  know  you 
never  tell  even  white  lies.  But  it  can't  be  true  ;  at  least, 
not  certain.  A  little  affaire  de  cceur,  maybe — ah  !  I  had 
several  before  I  was  twenty — very  pleasant,  chivalrous, 
romantic,  and  all  that  ;  and  such  a  brave  young  fellow, 
too  !  Helas  !  love  is  sweet  at  your  age  ! " — Avith  a  little 
sigh — "but  marriage  !  My  dear  child,  you  are  not  surely 
promised  to  this  youth  ? " 

"  I  am." 

"  How  sharply  you  say  it  !  ISTay.  don't  be  angry.  1 
liked  him  greatly.  A  very  pretty  fellow.  But  then  he  be- 
lonffs  to  the  people." 

"So  do  I." 


238  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Nauglity  child,  you  will  not  compreliend  me.  I  mean 
the  lower  orders,  the  bourgeoisie.  My  husband  saj-s  he  is 
a  tanner's  'prentice  boy." 

"  He  was  aj)prentice  ;  he  is  now  partner  in  Mr.  Fletcher's 
tan-yard." 

"  That  is  nearly  as  bad.  And  so  you  are  actually  going 
to  marry  a  tanner  ! " 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  Mr.  Halifax.  We  will,  if  you 
please,  cease  to  discuss  him.  Lady  Caroline." 

"  La  belle  sawvage  !  "  laughed  the  lady  ;  and,  in  the  dusk, 
I  fancied  I  saw  her  reach  over  to  pat  Ursula's  hand  in  her 
careless  pretty  way.      "Nay  ;  I  meant  no  harm." 

"  I  am  sure  you  did  not ;  but  we  will  change  the  sub- 
ject." 

"Not  at  all.  I  came  to  talk  about  it.  I  couldn't  sleep 
till  I  had.     Je  favme  hien,  tu  le  sain,  via  petite  Ursula." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Ursula  gently. 

"  And  I  would  like  well  to  see  you  married.  Truly,  we 
women  must  marry  or  be  nothing  at  all.  But  as  to  marry- 
ing for  love,  as  we  used  to  think  of,  and  as  charming  poets 
make  believe — my  dear,  now-a-days,  ^^^/-s  avons  cliange  tout 
cela." 

Ursula  replied  nothing. 

"  I  suppose,  my  young  friend,  the  bourgeois  is  very  much 
in  love  with  you  ?  With  '  les  beaux  yeux  de  votre  cassette,* 
Richard  swears  ;  but  I  know  better.  What  of  that  ?  All 
men  say  they  love  one — but  it  will  not  last.  It  burns 
itself  out.  It  will  be  over  in  a  year,  as  we  wives  all  know. 
Do  we  not,  Mrs.  Jessop  ?     Ah  !  she  is  gone  away." 

Probably  they  thought  I  was  away  too — or  else  they  took 
no  notice  of  me — and  went  talking  on. 

"  Jane  would  not  have  agreed  with  you,  cousin  Caroline ; 
she  loved  her  husband  very  dearly  when  she  was  a  girl. 
They  were  poor,  and  he  was  afraid  to  marry  ;  so  he  let  hei 
go.     That  was  wrong,  I  think." 

"How  wise  we  are  growing  in  these  things  now  !" 
laughed  Lady  Caroline.  "  But  come,  I  am  not  interested 
in  old  turtle-doves.     Say  about  yourself." 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  2'6^ 

"  Nothing  more  ?  Mou  Dieii  !  are  you  aware  that 
Richard  is  furious  ;  that  he  vows  he  will  keep  every  sou 
he  has  of  yours — law  or  no  law,  for  as  long  as  ever  he  can  ? 
He  declared  so  this  morning.  Did  young  Halifax  tell 
you?" 

"  Mr.  Halifax  has  told  me." 

"  '  Mr.  Halifax  ! '  how  proudly  she  says  it.  And  are  you 
still  going  to  be  married  to  him  ? "' 

"Yes." 

"What!  a  bourgeois — a  tradesman  ?  with  no  more 
money  than  those  sort  of  people  usually  have,  I  believe. 
You,  who  have  had  all  sorts  of  comforts,  have  always  lived 
as  a  gentlewoman.  Truly,  though  I  adore  a  love-marriage, 
in  theory,  practically,  1  tliink  you  are  mad — quite  mad,  my 
dear." 

"Do  you  ?" 

"  And  he,  too  !  Verily,  what  men  are  !  Especially  men 
in  love.     All  selfish  together." 

"  Caroline  ! " 

"Isn't  it  selfish  to  drag  a  pretty  creature  down,  and 
make  her  a  drudge,  a  slave — a  mere  poor  man's  wife  ?  " 

"  She  is  proud  of  being  such  !"  burst  in  the  indignant 
young  voice.  "  Lady  Caroline,  you  may  say  what  you  like 
to  me  ;  you  were  kind  always,  and  I  was  fond  of  you  ;  but 
you  shall  not  say  a  word  against  ^Ir.  Halifax.  You  do  not 
know  him — how  could  you  ?  '' 

"And  you  do  ?  Ah  !  inn  petite,  we  all  think  that,  till 
we  find  out  to  the  contrary.  And  so  he  urges  you  to  be 
married  at  once — rich  or  poor — at  all  risks,  at  all  costs  ? 
How  lover-like — how  like  a  man  !  I  guess  it  all.  Half 
beseeches — half  persuades — " 

"  He  does  not ! "  And  the  girl's  voice  was  sharp  with 
pain.  "  I  would  not  have  told  you,  but  I  must — for  his 
sake.  He  asked  me  this  afternoon,  if  I  was  afraid  of  being 
poor  ?  if  I  would  like  to  wait,  and  let  him  work  hard  alone, 
till  he  could  give  me  a  home  like  that  I  was  born  to  ?  He 
did,  Caroline." 

"  And  you  answered — " 

"  No — a  thousand  times,  no  !     He  will  have  a  hard  battle 


340  JOHIsr    HALIFAX. 

to  light — would  I  let  him  light  it  alone  ?   when  I  can  help 
him — wlien  he  says  I  can." 

"Ah,  child  !  you  that  know  nothing  of  poverty,  how  can 
you  bear  it  ?  '' 

"  I  will  try." 

"  You  that  never  ruled  a  house  in  your  life — " 

"  I  can  learn." 

"  del!  'tis  Avonderful  !  And  this  young  man  has  no 
friends,  no  connections,  no  fortune  !  only  himself." 

"  Only  himself,"  said  Ursula,  with  a  jnroud  contempt. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  my  dear,  \A\j  you  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Because" — and  Ursula  spoke  in  low  tones,  that  seemed 
wrung  out  of  her  almost  against  her  will — "  because  I  honor 
him,  because  I  trust  him  ;  and,  young  as  I  am,  I  have  seen 
enough  of  the  world  to  be  thankful  that  there  is  in  it  one 
man  wliom  I  can  trust,  can  honor,  entirely.  Also — though 
I  am  often  ashamed  lest  this  be  selfish — because  when  I 
was  in  trouble  he  helped  me  ;  when  I  was  misjudged,  he 
believed  in  me  ;  when  I  was  sad  and  desolate,  he  loved  me. 
And  I  am  proud  of  his  love — I  glory  in  it.  No  one  shall 
take  it  from  me — no  one  will — no  one  can,  unless  I  cease  to 
deserve  it." 

Lady  Caroline  was  silent.  Despite  her  will,  you  might 
hear  a  sigh  breaking  from  some  deej)  corner  of  tliat  light, 
frivolous  heart. 

"  Bioi!  cliacim  a  sou  goilt!  But  you  have  never  stated 
one  trifle — not  unnecessary,  perhaps,  though  most  married 
folk  get  on  quite  well  without  it. — 'Honor,'  'trust/ — 
pshaw  !     My  child,  do  you  love  Mr.  Halifax  ?" 

No  answer. 

"  Nay,  why  be  shy  ?  In  England,  they  say,  and  among 
the  people — no  offence,  ma  2)etite — one  does  sometimes 
happen  to  care  for  the  man  one  marries.  Tell  me,  for  I 
must  be  gone,  do  you  love  him  ?  one  word  whether  or  no  ?  " 

Just  then  the  light  coming  in,  showed  Ursula's  face, 
beautiful  with  more  than  happiness,  uplifted  even  with  a 
religious  thankfulness,  as  she  said  simply, 

"  John  knows." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

In"  the  late  autumn,  John  married  Ursula  March,  He 
was  twenty-one,  and  she  eighteen.  It  was  very  young — too 
young,  perhajjs,  prudent  folk  miglit  say  ;  and  yet  sometimes 
I  think  a  double  blessing  falls  on  unions  like  this.  A  right 
and  holy  marriage,  a  true  love-marriage,  be  it  early  or  late, 
is — must  be — sanctified  and  happy  ;  yet  those  have  the 
best  chance  of  ha2)piness,  who,  meeting  on  the  very  thresh- 
old of  life,  enter  upon  its  duties  together  ;  with  free,  fresh 
hearts,  easily  moulded  the  one  to  the  other,  rich  in  all  the 
riches  of  youth,  acute  to  enjoy,  brave  and  hopeful  to 
endure. 

Such  were  these  two — God  bless  them  ! 

They  were  married  quite  privately,  neither  having  any 
near  kindred.  Besides,  John  held  strongly  the  opinion  that 
so  solemn  a  festival  as  marriage  is  only  desecrated  by  out- 
ward show.  And  so,  one  golden  autumn  morning.  I^rsula 
walked  quietly  up  the  Abbey  aisle,  in  her  plain  white  mus- 
lin gown  ;  and  John  and  she  plighted  their  faithful  vows, 
no  one  being  present  except  the  Jessops  and  I.  They  then 
went  away  for  a  brief  holiday — went  away  without  either 
pomp  or  tears,  entirely  happy — husband  and  wife  together. 

When  I  came  home,  and  said  what  had  happened,  my 
good  father  seemed  little  surprised.  He  had  expressly  de- 
sired not  to  be  told  anything  of  the  wedding  till  all  was 
over — he  hated  marriages. 

"  But  since  it  is  done,  maybe  'tis  as  well,"  said  he, 
grimly.  "  She  seems  a  kindly  young  thing  ;  wise,  even — 
for  a  woman." 

"  And  pleasant  too,  father  ?  " 

*'Ay,  but  favor  is  deceitful  and  beauty  vain.  So  the 
16  241 


343  JOHiq-    HALIFAX. 

lad's  gone  :  "  and  he  looked  round,  as  if  missing  John,  who 
had  lived  in  our  house  ever  since  his  illness.  "  I  thought  as 
much,  when  he  bade  me  good-night,  and  asked  my  leave  to 
take  a  journey.  So  he's  married  and  gone  !  Come,  Phineas, 
sit  thee  down  by  thy  old  father  :  I  am  glad  thee  wilt  always 


remain  a  bachelor, 


7? 


We  settled  ourselves,  my  father  and  I ;  and  while  the  old 
man  smoked  his  meditative  pipe,  I  sat  thinking  of  the 
winter  evenings  when  we  two  lads  had  read  by  the  fire-side  ; 
the  summer  days  when  we  had  lounged  on  the  garden  wall. 
He  was  a  married  man  now,  the  head  of  a  household  ; 
others  had  a  right — the  first,  best,  holiest  right — to  the 
love  that  used  to  be  all  mine  ;  and  though  it  was  a  marriage 
entirely  happy  and  liopeful,  though  all  that  day  and  every 
day  I  rejoiced  both  with  and  for  my  brother,  still  it  was 
rather  sad  to  miss  him  from  our  house,  to  feel  that  his  boyish 
days  were  quite  over — that  his  boyish  place  would  know 
him  no  more. 

But  of  course  I  had  fully  overcome,  or  at  least  suppressed 
this  feeling,  when,  John  having  brought  his  wife  home,  I 
went  to  see  them  in  their  own  house. 

I  had  seen  it  once  before  ;  it  was  an  old  dwelling-house, 
which  my  father  bought  with  the  flour-mill,  situated  in  the 
middle  of  the  town,  the  front  windows  looking  on  the  street, 
the  desolate  garden  behind  shut  in  by  four  brick  Avails.  A 
most  unbridal-like  abode.  I  feared  they  would  find  it  so, 
even  though  John  had  been  busy  there  the  last  two  months, 
in  early  mornings  and  late  evenings,  keeping  a  comical 
secresy  over  the  matter,  as  if  he  were  jealous  that  any  one 
but  himself  should  lend  an  eye,  or  put  a  finger  to  the  dear 
task  of  making  ready  for  his  young  wife. 

There  could  not  be  greater  preparations,  I  knew,  for  the 
third  of  my  father's  business  promised  but  a  small  income. 
Yet  the  gloomy  outside  being  once  passed,  the  house  looked 
wonderfully  bright  and  clean  ;  the  walls  and  doors  newly 
painted  and  delicately  stencilled:- — (''Master  did  all  that 
himsel',"  observed  the  proud  little  handmaid,  Jenny — Jem 
Watkins'  sweetheart.  I  had  begged  the  place  for  her  my- 
self of  Mistress  Ursula.)     Though  only  a  few  rooms  were 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  343 

furnished,  and  that  very  simply,  ahnost  poorly,  all  was  done 
with  taste  and  care  ;  the  colors  were  mingled,  the  wood- 
work graceful  and  good. 

They  were  out  gardening,  John  Halifax  and  his  wife — 

Ay,  his  wife  ;  he  was  a  husband  now.  They  looked  so" 
young,  both  of  them,  ho  kneeling,  jjlanting  box-edging,  she 
standing  by  him  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder — the  hand 
with  the  ring  on  it.  He  was  laughing  at  something  i^liehad 
said,  thy  very  laugh  of  old,  David  !  Neither  heard  me  come 
till  I  stood  close  by. 

" Phineas,  welcome,  welcome!"  He  Avrung  my  hand 
fervently,  many  times  ;  so  did  Ursula,  blushing  rosy  red. 
They  both  called  me  ''brother."  and  both  were  as  fond  and 
warm  as  any  brother  and  sister  could  be. 

A  few  minutes  after,  Ursula — "■  Mrs.  Halifax.''  as  I  said 
I  ought  to  call  her  now — sli})ped  away  into  the  house,  and 
John  and  I  were  left  together.  Ho  glanced  after  his  wife 
till  she  was  out  of  sight,  played  with  the  spade,  threw  it 
down,  placed  his  two  hands  on  my  shoulders,  and  looked 
hard  in  my  face.     He  was  trembling  with   deep  emotion. 

"Art  thou  happy,  David  ?" 

"  Ay,  lad,  almost  afraid  of  my  happiness.  God  make  me 
worthy  of  it,  and  of  her  !  " 

He  lifted  his  eyes  upwards  :  there  was  in  them  a  new 
look,  sweet  and  solemn,  a  look  which  expressed  the  satisfied 
content  of  a  life  now  rounded  and  completed  b}'  thut  otiier 
dear  life  which  it  had  received  into  and  united  with  its  own 
— making  a  full  and  perfect  whole,  which,  however  kindly 
and  fondly  it  may  look  on  friends  and  kindred  outside,  has 
no  absolute  need  of  any,  but  is  complete  in  and  sufficient  to 
itself,  as  true  marriage  should  be.  A  look,  unconsciously 
fulfilling  the  law — God's  own  law — that  a  man  shall  leave 
father  and  mother,  brethren  and  companions,  and  shall 
cleave  unto  his  wife,  and  "  they  two  shall  become  one  flesh." 

And  although  I  rejoiced  in  his  joy,  still  I  felt  half-sadly 
for  a  moment,  the  vague,  fine  line  of  division  which  was 
thus  for  evermore  drawn  between  him  and  me  of  no  fault 
on  either  side,  and  of  which  he  himself  was  unaware.  It 
was  but  the  right  and  natural  law  of  things,  the  difference 


244  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

between  the  married  and  unmarried,  which  only  the  latter 
feel.  Which,  perhaps,  the  Divine  One  meant  them  to  feel 
— that  out  of  their  great  solitude  of  this  world  may  grow  a 
little  inner  Eden,  where  they  may  hear  His  voice,  "  walk- 
ing in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  day.'* 

We  went  round  John^s  garden  ;  there  was  nothing  Eden- 
like about  it,  being  somewhat  of  a  waste  still,  divided 
between  ancient  cabbage-beds,  empty  flower-beds,  and 
great  old  orchard-trees,  very  thinly  laden  with  fruit. 

"We'll  make  them  better  next  year,"  said  John,  hope- 
fully. "  We  may  have  a  very  decent  garden  here  in  time.'^ 
He  looked  round  his  little  domain  with  the  eye  of  a  master, 
and  j)ut  hio  arm,  half-proudly,  half-shjdy,  round  his  wife's 
shoulders — she  had  sidled  up  to  him,  ostensibly  bringing 
him  a  letter,  though  possibly,  only  for  an  excuse,  because 
in  those  SM'eet  early  days  they  naturally  liked  to  be  in  each 
other's  siglit  continually.  It  was  very  beautiful  to  see 
what  a  demiire,  soft,  meek,  matronliness  had  come  over 
the  high  spirit  of  the  "  Nut-browne  Mayde." 

"  May  I  read  ?  "  she  said,  peeping  over  him. 

"Of  course  you  may,  little  one."  A  comical  pet-name 
for  him  to  give  her,  wlio  was  anytliing  but  small.  I  could 
have  smiled,  remembering  the  time  when  John  Halifax 
bowed  to  the  stately  and  dignified  young  gentlewoman  who 
stood  at  Mrs.  Tod's  door.  To  tliink  he  should  ever  have 
come  to  call  Miss  Ursula  March  "little  one  !" 

But  this  was  not  exactly  a  time  for  jesting,  since,  on 
reading  the  letter  I  saw  the  young  wife  flush  an  angry  red 
and  then  look  grave.  Until  John,  crumpling  up  the  paper, 
and  dropping  it  almost  with  a  boyish  frolic  into  the  middle 
of  a  large  rosemary-bush,  took  his  wife  by  both  her  hands, 
and  gazed  down  into  her  troubled  face,  smiling. 

"  You  surely  don't  mind  this,  love  ?  We  knew  it  all 
before.     It  can  make  no  j)ossible  difference." 

"No!  But  it  is  so  wrong — so  unjust.  I  never  believed 
he  dared  do  it — to  you." 

"  Hear  her,  Pliineas  !  She  thinks  nobody  dare  do  any 
thing  ill  to  her  husband — not  even  Richard  Brithwood." 

"He  is  a—" 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  245 

'^  Hush,  dear  I — Ave  will  not  talk  about  him  ;  since,  for 
all  his  threats,  he  can  do  us  no  harm,  and,  poor- man  !  he 
never  will  be  half  as  happy  as  we." 

That  was  true.  So  Mr.  Brithwood's  insulting  letter  was 
left  to  moulder  harmlessly  away  in  the  roseuiary-bush,  and 
we  all  Avalked  up  and  down  the  garden,  talking  over  a 
thousand  plans  for  making  ends  meet  in  that  little  house- 
hold. To  their  young  hopefulness  even  poverty  itself 
became  a  jest  ;  and  was  met  cheerfully,  like  an  lionestj 
hard-featured,  hard-handed  friend,  Avhose  rough  face  was 
often  kindly,  and  whose  harsh  grasp  made  one  feel  the 
strength  of  one's  own. 

"  We  mean,"  John  said  gaily,  "  to  be  two  living  Essays 
on  the  Advantages  of  Poverty.  We  are  not  going  to  be 
afraid  of  it,  or  ashamed  of  it.  We  don't  care  Avho  knows 
it.  We  consider  that  our  respectability  lies  solely  in  our 
two  selves." 

"  But  our  neighbors  ?" 

"  Our  neighbors  may  think  of  us  exactly  what  they  like. 
Half  the  sting  of  poverty  is  gone  when  one  keeps  house 
for  one's  OAvn  comfort  and  not  for  the  comments  of  one's 
neighbors." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  Ursula  cried,  tossing  back  her 
head  in  merry  defiance.  "  Besides,  we  are  young,  we  have 
few  wants,  and  we  can  easily  reduce,  our  Avants  to  our 
havings." 

"  And  no  more  grey  silk  gowns  ?"  said  her  husband,  half 
fondly,  half -sadly. 

"You  Avill  not  be  so  rude  as  to  say  I  shall  not  look 
equally  well  in  a  cotton  one  ?  And  as  for  being  as  happy 
in  it — Avhy  I  knoAV  best." 

He  smiled  at  her  once  more, — that  tender,  manly  smile, 
Avhich  made  all  soft  and  lustrous  the  inmost  depths  of  his 
brown  eyes  ;  truly  no  Avoman  need  be  afraid,  with  a  smile 
like  that  to  be  the  strength,  the  guidance,  the  sunshine  of 
her  home. 

We  went  in,  and  the  young  mistress  showed  us  her  new 
house  ;  we  investigated  and  admired  all,  down  to  the  very 
scullery  ;  then  we  adjourned  to  the  sitting-room — the  only 


246  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

one — and,  after  tea,  Ursula  arranged  her  books,  some  on 
stained  shelves,  which  she  proudly  informed  me  were  of 
John's  own  making,  and  some  on  an  old  spinnet,  which  he 
had  picked  up,  and  which,  he  said,  was  of  no  other  use  than 
to  hold  books,  since  she  was  not  an  accomplished  young 
lady,  and  could  neither  sing  nor  play. 

"  But  you  don't  dislike  the  spinnet,  Ursula  ?     It  caught 
my  fancy.     Do  you  know  I  have  a  faint  remembrance  that 
once,  on  such  a  thing  as  this,  my  mother  used  to  play  ?" 
He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  ;  Ursula  stole  up  to  him,  with  a 
fond,  awed  look. 

"You  never  told  me  anything  about  your  mother  ?" 
"  Dear,  I  had  little  to  tell.     Long  ago,  you  knew  who 
you  were  going   to    marry — John    Halifax,    who    had  no 
friends,  no  kindred,  whose  parents  left  him  nothing  but 
his  name." 

"  And  you  cannot  remember  them  ?" 
*'My  father,  not  at  all  ;  my  mother,  very  little." 
"  And  have  you  nothing  belonging  to  them  ?  " 
"  Only  one  thing.     Should  you  like  to  see  it  ?  " 
"Very  much."     She  still  spoke  slowly  and  with  slight 
hesitation.      *'  It  was  hard  for  him  not  to  have  known  his 
parents,"  she  added,  when  John  had  left  the  room.     "  I 
should  like  to  have  known  them  too.     But  still — when  I 
know  livm — " 

She  smiled,  tossed  back  the  torrent  of  curls  from  her 
forehead — her  proud,  pure  forehead,  that  Avould  have  worn 
a  coronet  of  jewels  more  meekly  than  it  now  wore  the  un- 
adorned honor  of  being  John  Halifax's  wife.  I  wish  he 
could  have  seen  her. 

That  minute  he  re-appeared. 

"  Here,  Ursula,  is  all  I  have  of  my  parents.  No  one 
has  seen  it,  except  Phineas  there,  until  now." 

He  held  in  his  hand  the  little  Greek  Testament  which  he 
had  shown  me  years  before.  Carefully,  and  with  the  same 
fond,  reverent  look  as  vdien  he  was  a  boy,  he  undid  the 
case,  made  of  silk,  with  ribbon  strings — doubtless  a  wo- 
man's work — it  must  have  been  his  mother's.  His  wife 
toiiched  it,  softly  and  tenderly.     He  showed  her  the  fly- 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  247 

leaf  ;  she  looked  over  the  inscription,  and  then  repeated  it 
aloud. 

"  '  Guy  Halifax,  gentleman.'     I  thought — I  thought — " 

Her  manner  betrayed  a  pleased  surprise  :  she  would  not 
have  been  a  woman,  especially  a  woman  reared  in  pride  of 
birth,  not  to  have  felt  and  testified  the  like  pleasure  for  a 
moment. 

'^  You  thought  that  I  was  only  a  laborer's  son  ;  or — no- 
body's.    Well,  does  it  signify  ?  " 

*'  No,"  she  cried,  as  clinging  round  his  neck,  and  throw- 
ing  her  head  back,  she  looked  at  him  with  all  her  heart  in 
her  eyes.  "  No,  it  does  not  signify.  Were  your  father  the 
king  on  his  throne,  or  the  beggar  in  the  streets,  it  would 
be  all  the  same  to  me  ;  you  would  still  be  yourself — my 
husband — my  John  Halifax." 

"  God  bless  thee — my  own  wife  that  He  has  given  me  ! " 
John  murmured,  through  his  close  embrace. 

They  had  altogether  forgotten  any  one's  presence,  dear 
souls  !  so  I  kept  them  in  that  happy  oblivion,  by  slipping 
out  to  Jenny  in  the  kitchen,  and  planning  with  her  how 
we  could  at  least  spare  Jem  Watkins  two  days  a  week  to 
help  in  the  garden,  under  Mr.  Halifax's  orders. 

''Only,  Jenny,"  smiled  I,  with  a  warning  finger,  •"no 
idling  and  chattering.  Young  folk  must  work  hard,  if 
they  want  to  come  to  the  happy  ending  of  your  master  and 
mistress." 

The  little  maid  grew  the  color  of  her  swain's  pet  peonies, 
and  promised  obedience.  Conscientious  Jem  there  was  no 
fear  of — all  the  rosy-cheeked  damsels  in  Christendom  would 
not  have  turned  him  aside  from  one  iota  of  his  duty  to  Mr. 
Halifax.  Thus  there  was  love  in  the  parlor,  and  love  in 
the  kitchen.  But,  I  verily  believe,  the  young  married 
couple  were  served  all  the  better  for  their  kindness  and 
sympathy  to  the  humble  pair  of  sweethearts  in  the  rank 
below  them. 

John  walked  home  with  me — a  pleasure  I  had  hardly 
expected,  but  which  was  insisted  upon  both  by  him  and 
Ursula.  For  from  the  very  first  of  her  betrothal,  there 
had  been  a  thorough  brother-and-sisterly  bond  established 


248  ,TOHN    HALIFAX. 

between  her  and  me.  Her  womanly,  generous  nature 
would  have  scorned  to  do  what,  as  I  have  hiard,  many 
young  wives  do — seek  to  make  coldness  between  her  hus- 
band and  his  old  friends.  No ;  secure  in  her  riches,  in 
her  rightful  possession  of  his  whole  heart,  she  took  into 
hers  everything  that  belonged  to  John,  every  one  he  cared 
for  ;  to  be  for  ever  held  sacred  and  beloved,  being  his,  and 
therefore  her  own.  Thus,  we  were  the  very  best  of  friends, 
my  sister  Ursula  and  me. 

John  and  I  talked  a  little  about  her — of  her  rosy  looks, 
which  he  hoped  would  not  fade  in  their  town  dwelling — and 
of  good  Mrs.  Tod's  wonderful  delight  at  seeing  her,  when, 
last  week,  they  had  stayed  two  days  in  the  dear  old  cottage 
at  Enderley.  But  he  seemed  slow  to  speak  about  his  wife, 
or  to  dilate  on  a  joy  so  new  that  it  was  hardly  to  be  breathed 
on,  lest  it  might  melt  into  air. 

Only  when,  as  we  were  crossing  the  street,  a  fine  equipage 
passed,  he  looked  after  it  with  a  smile, 

"  Grey  ponies  !  she  is  so  fond  of  long-tailed  grey  ponies. 
Poor  child  !  when  shall  I  be  able  to  give  her  a  carriage  ? 
Perhaps  some  day — who  knows  ! " 

He  turned  the  conversation  and  began  telling  me  about 
the  cloth-mill — his  old  place  of  resort  ;  which  he  had  been 
over  once  again,  when  they  were  at  Rose  Cottage. 

"  And  do  you  knoAV,  while  I  was  looking  at  the  machinery, 
a  notion  came  into  my  head,  that,  instead  of  that  great 
waterwheel — you  remember  it  ? — it  might  be  worked  by 
steam.  ^' 

'^  What  sort  of  steam?'' 

^'  Phineas,  your  memory  is  no  better,  I  see.  Have  you 
forgotten  my  telling  you  how,  last  year,  some  Scotch  en- 
gineer tried  to  move  boats  by  steam,  on  the  Forth  and 
Clyde  canal  ?  Why  should  not  the  same  power  be  turned 
to  account  in  a  cloth-mill  ?  I  know  it  could — I  have  got 
the  plan  of  the  machinery  in  my  head  already.  I  made  a 
drawing  of  it  last  night,  and  showed  it  to  Ursula  ;  and  she 
understood  it  directly." 

I  smiled. 

"  And  I  do  believe,  by  common  patience  and  skill,  a  man 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  249 

might  make  his  fortune  with  it  ut  those  Enderley  cloth- 
mills." 

"  Suppose  you  try  !  "  I  said,  in  half  jest,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  see  how  seriously  Johu  took  it. 

"  I  wish  I  could  try — if  it  were  only  practicable.  Once 
or  twice  I  have  thought  it  might  be.  The  mill  belongs  to 
Lord  Luxmore.  His  steward  works  it.  Now,  if  one  could 
get  to  be  a  foreman  or  overseer — " 

"  Try — you  can  do  anything  you  try." 

"  No,  I  must  not  think  of  it — she  and  I  have  agreed  that 
I  must  not,"  said  he,  steadily.  "  It's  my  weakness — my 
hobby,  you  know.  But  no  hobbies  now.  Above  all,  1 
must  not,  for  a  mere  fancy,  give  up  the  work  that  lies 
under  my  hand.     What  of  the  tan-yard,  Phineas  ?  " 

"  My  father  missed  you,  and  grumbled  after  you  a  good 
deal.  He  looks  anxious,  I  think.  He  vexes  himself  more 
than  he  need  about  business." 

"  Don't  let  him.  Keep  him  as  much  at  home  as  you  can. 
I'll  manage  the  tan-yard  ;  you  know — and  he  knows  too — 
that  everything  which  can  be  done  for  us  all,  I  shall  do." 

I  looked  up,  surprised  at  the  extreme  earnestness  of  his 
manner. 

"  Surely,  John——" 

"  Nay,  there  is  nothing  to  be  uneasy  about — nothing 
more  than  there  has  been  for  this  year  past.  All  trade  is 
bad  just  now.  Never  fear,  we'll  weather  the  storm — I'm 
not  afraid." 

Cheerfully  as  he  spoke,  I  began  to  guess — what  he 
already  must  have  known — that  our  fortunes  were  as  a 
slowly-leaking  ship,  of  which  the  helm  had  slipj^ed  from  my 
old  father's  feeble  hand.  But  John  had  taken  it — John 
stood  firm  at  the  wheel.  Perhaps,  with  God's  blessing,  he 
might  yet  guide  us  safe  to  land. 

I  had  not  time  to  say  more,  when,  with  its  pretty  grey 
ponies,  the  curricle  once  more  passed  our  way.  Two  ladies 
were  in  it  :  one  leaned  out  and  bowed.  Presently  a  lacquey 
came  to  beg  Mr.  Halifax  would  come  and  speak  with  Lady 
Caroline  Brithwood. 

"  Shall  you  go,  John  ?'' 


350  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Certainly — why  not  '<!"  And  he  stepped  forward  to 
the  carriage-side. 

"  Ah  !  delighted  to  see  mon  heau  cousin.  This  is  he, 
Emma,"  turning  to  the  lady  who  sat  by  her — oh,  what  a 
lovely  face  that  lady  had  !  no  wonder  it  drove  men  mad  ; 
ay,  even  that  brave  man,  in  whose  honest  life  can  be 
chronicled  only  this  one  sin,  of  being  bewitched  by  her. 

John  caught  the  name — perhaps,  too,  he  recognized  the 
face — it  was  only  too  public,  alas  !  His  own  took  a  stern- 
ness such  as  I  had  nevei*  before  seen,  and  yet  there  was  a 
trace  of  |)ity  in  it  too. 

"  You  are  quite  well.  Indeed,  he  looks  so — n'sst-ce  pas, 
via  die  re?" 

John  bore  gravely  the  eyes  of  the  two  ladies  fixed  on 
him,  in  rather  too  jjh^in  admiration — very  gravely,  too,  he 
bowed. 

"  And  what  of  our  young  bride,  our  treasure  that  we 
stole — nay,  it  was  quite  fair — quite  fair.     How  is  Ursula  ?  " 

"  I  thank  you,  Mrs.  Halifax  is  well." 

Lady  Caroline  smiled  at  the  manner,  courteous  through 
all  its  coldness,  which  not  ill  became  the  young  man.  But 
she  would  not  be  repelled. 

"I  am  delighted  to  have  met  you.  Indeed,  we  must  be 
friends.  One's  friends  need  not  alwavs  be  the  same  as  one's 
husband's,  eh,  Emma  ?  You  will  be  enchanted  with  our 
fair  bride.  We  must  both  seize  the  first  opportunity,  and 
come  as  disguised  princesses,  to  visit  Mrs.  Halifax." 

"  Again  let  me  thank  you.  Lady  Caroline.     But " 

''No  '  buts.'  lam  resolved.  Mr.  Brithwood  will  never 
find  it  out.  And  if  he  does — why,  he  may.  I  like  you 
both  ;  I  intend  us  to  be  excellent  friends,  whenever  I  chance 
to  be  at  Norton  Bury.  Don't  be  proud,  and  reject  me, 
there's  good  people — the  only  good  peoj)le  I  ever  knew  who 
were  not  disagreeable. " 

And  leaning  on  her  large  ermine  muff,  she  looked  right 
into  John's  face,  with  the  winning  sweetness  whicli  Nature, 
not  courts,  lent  to  those  fair  features — already  beginning  to 
fade,  already  trying  to  hide  by  art  their  painful,  jiremature 
decay. 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  351 

John  returned  the  look,  lialf  sorrowfully  ;  it  was  so  hard 
to  give  back  harshness  to  kindliness.  But  a  light  laugh 
from  the  other  lady  caught  his  ear,  and  his  hesitation — if 
hesitation  he  had  felt — was  over. 

"No,  Lady  Caroline,  it  cannot  be.  You  will  soon  see 
yourself  that  it  cannot.  Living,  as  we  do,  in  the  same 
neighborhood,  we  may  meet  occasionally  by  chance,  and 
always,  I  hope,  with  kindly  feeling  ;  but,  under  present 
circumstances — indeed  under  any  circumstances — intimacy 
between  your  house  and  ours  would  be  impossible.'' 

Lady  Caroline  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  pretty  air 
of  pique.  "As  you  will  !  I  never  trouble  myself  to  court 
the  friendship  of  any  one.  Le  jeu  ne  vcmt  pas  la  clian- 
delle" 

"  Do  not  mistake  me,"  John  said,  earnestly.  "Do  not 
suppose  I  am  ungrateful  for  your  former  kindness  to  my 
wife  ;  but  the  difference  between  her  and  you — between 
your  life  and  hers — is  so  extreme." 

"  Vraiment ! ''  with  another  shrug  and  smile,  rather  a 
bitter  one. 

"  Our  two  patbs  lie  wide  apart — wide  as  the  poles  ;  our 
house  and  our  society  would  not  suit  you  ;  and  that  my 
wife  should  ever  enter  yours  "—glancing  from  one  to  the 
other  of  those  two  faces,  painted  with  false  roses,  lit  by  false 
smiles — "No,  Lady  Caroline,"  he  added,  firmly,  "it  is 
impossible." 

She  looked  mortified  for  a  moment,  and  tben  resumed 
her  gaiety,  which  nothing  could  ever  banish  long. 

"  Hear  him,  Emma  !  So  young  and  so  unkindly  !  Mais 
nous  verrons.  You  will  change  3'our  mind.  Au  revoii^, 
mon  lean  cousin."' 

They  drove  olT  quickly,  and  were  gone. 

"  John,  what  will  Mrs.  Halifax  say  ?" 

"  My  innocent  girl  !  thank  God  she  is  safe  away  from 
them  all — safe  in  a  poor  man's  honest  breast."  He  spoke 
with  much  emotion. 

"  Yet  Lady  Caroline " 

"  Did  you  see  who  sat  beside  her  ?  " 

"  That  beautiful  woman  ?" 


252  JOHISr    HALIFAX. 

"  Poor  soul  !  alas  for  her  beauty  ;  Phineas,  that  was  Lady 
Hamilton."  I 

He  said  no  more,  nor  I.     At  my  own  door  he  left  me,      ' 
with  his  old  merry  laugh,  his  old  familiar  grasp  of  my 
shoulder. 

"  Lad,  take  care  of  thyself,  though  I'm  not  by  to  see.      : 
Remember,  I  am  just  as  much  thy  tyrant  as  if  I  were  liv- 
ing here  still." 

I  smiled,  and  he  went  his  way,  to  his  own  quiet,  blessed, 
married  home.  ] 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

The  winter  and  spring  passed  calmly  by.  I  had  mach 
ill  health,  and  could  go  out  very  little  ;  but  they  came 
constantly  to  me,  John  and  Ursula,  especially  the  latter. 
During  this  illness,  when  I  learned  to  watch  longingly  for 
her  kind  face,  and  listen  for  her  cheerful  voice  talking 
pleasantly  and  sisterly  beside  my  chair,  she  taught  me  to 
give  up  '•  Mrs.  Halifax,"  and  call  her  Ursula.  It  Avas 
only  by  slow  degrees  I  did  so,  truly  ;  for  she  was  not  one 
of  those  gentle  creatures  whom,  married  or  single,  one 
calls  instinctively  by  their  Christian  names.  Her  manner 
in  girlhood  was  not  exactly  either  "  meek"  or  "  gentle  ;" 
except  towards  him,  the  only  one  who  ever  ruled  her,  and 
to  whom  she  Avas,  through  life,  the  meekest  and  tenderest 
of  women.  To  every  one  else  she  comported  herself,  at 
least  in  youth,  with  a  dignity  and  decision — a  certain 
stand-off-ishness — so  that,  as  I  said,  it  was  not  quite  easy 
to  think  of  her  as  "Ursula."  Afterwards,  when  seen  in 
the  light  of  a  new  character,  for  which  Heaven  destined 
and  especially  fitted  her,  and  in  which  she  appeared  al- 
together beautiful — I  began  to  give  her  another  name — but 
it  will  come  by-and-by. 

In  the  long  midsummer-days,  when  our  house  was  very 
quiet  and  rather  dreary,  I  got  into  the  habit  of  creeping 
over  to  John's  home,  and  sitting  for  hours  under  the  apple- 
trees  in  his  garden.  It  was  now  different  from  the  wilder- 
ness he  found  it ;  the  old  trees  were  pruned  and  tended, 
and  young  ones  planted.  Mrs.  Halifax  called  it  proudly 
"  our  orchard,"  though  the  top  of  the  tallest  sapling  could 
be  reached  with  her  hand.  Then,  in  addition  to  the  in- 
digenous cabbages,  came  long  rows  of  white-blossomed 
peas,  big-headed  cauliflowers,   and  all  vegetables  easy  of 

253 


254  JOHlSr   HALIFAX. 

cultivation.  My  father  sent  contributions  from  his  cele- 
brated gooseberry-bushes,  and  his  wall-fruit,  the  pride  of 
Norton  Bury  ;  Mrs.  Jessop  stocked  the  borders  from  her 
great  parterres  of  sweet-scented  common  flowers  ;  so  that, 
walled  in  as  it  was,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  town  likewise,  it 
was  growing  into  a  very  tolerable  garden.  Just  the  kind 
of  garden  that  I  love — half  trim,  half  wild — fruits,  flowers, 
and  vegetables  living  in  comfortable  equality  and  frater- 
nity, none  being  too  choice  to  be  harmed  by  their  neighbors, 
none  esteemed  too  mean  to  be  restricted  in  their  natural 
profusion.  Oh  !  dear  old-fashioned  garden  !  full  of  sweet- 
Williams  and  white-lSTancies,  and  larkspur  and  London- 
pride,  and  yard-wide  beds  of  snowy  saxifrage  and  tall,  pale 
evening  primroses,  and  hollyhocks  six  or  seven  feet  high, 
many-tinted,  from  yellow  to  darkest  ruby-color  ;  while  for 
scents,  large  blushing  cab1)age-roses,  pinks,  gilly-flowers, 
with  here  and  there  a  great  bush  of  southern-wood  or  rose- 
mary, or  a  border  of  thyme,  or  a  sweet-briar  hedge — a 
pleasant  garden,  where  all  colors  and  perfumes  were  blended 
together  ;  ay,  even  a  stray  dandelion,  that  stood  boldly  up 
in  his  yellow  waistcoat,  like  a  young  country  bumpkin,  who 
feels  himself  a  decent  lad  in  his  way — or  a  plant  of  Avild 
marjoram,  that  had  somcho^v  got  in,  and  kept  meekly  in  the 
corner  of  the  bed,  trying  to  turn  into  a  respectable  culti- 
vated herb.  Dear  old  garden  ! — such  as  one  rarely  sees 
now-a-days  ! — I  would  give  the  finest  modern  pleasure- 
ground  for  the  like  of  thee  ! 

This  was  what  John's  garden  became  ;  its  every  inch 
and  every  flower  still  live  in  more  memories  than  mine, 
and  will  for  a  generation  yet ;  but  I  am  speaking  of  it 
when  it  was  young,  like  its  gardeners.  These  were  Mrs. 
Halifax  and  her  husband,  Jem  and  Jenny.  The  master 
could  nut  do  much;  he  had  long,  long  hours  in  his  busi- 
ness ;  but  I  used  to  watch  Ursula,  morning  after  morning, 
suj^erintending  her  domain,  with  her  faithful  attendant  Jem 
—Jem  adored  his  "missis."  Or  else,  when  it  Avas  hot 
noon,  I  used  to  lie  in  their  cool  parlor,  and  listen  to  her 
voice  and  step  about  the  house,  teaching  Jenny,  or  learn- 
ing from  her — for  the  young  gentlewoman  had  much  to 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  255 

learn,  and  was  not  ashamed  of  it  either.  She  laughed  at 
her  own  mistakes,  and  tried  again  ;  she  never  was  idle  or 
dull  for  a  minute.  She  did  a  great  deal  in  the  house  her- 
self. Often  she  would  sit  chatting  with  me,  having  on 
her  lap  a  coarse  brown  pan,  shelling  peas  ;  slicing  beans, 
picking  gooseberries  ;  her  fingers — Miss  March's  fair  fingers 
— looking  fairer  for  the  contrast  with  their  unaccustomed 
work.  Or  else,  in  the  summer  evenings,  she  would  be  at 
the  window  sewing — always  sewing— but  so  placed,  that 
with  one  glance  she  could  see  down  the  street  where  John 
was  coming.  Far,  far  off  slie  always  saw  him,  and  at  the 
sight  her  whole  face  would  change  and  brighten,  like  a 
meadow  when  the  sun  comes  out.  Then  she  ran  to  open 
the  door,  and  I  could  hear  his  low  "  my  darling  I  "  and  a 
long,  long  pause,  in  the  hall. 

They  were  very,  very  happy  in  those  early  days — tliose 
quiet  days  of  poverty  ;  when  they  visited  nobody,  and  no- 
body visited  them  ;  when  their  whole  world  was  bounded 
by  the  dark  old  house  and  the  garden,  with  its  four  high 
walls. 

One  July  night,  I  remember.  Jolm  and  I  were  walking 
up  and  down  the  paths  by  star-light.  It  was  very  hot 
weather,  inclining  one  to  stay  Avithout  doors  half  the  night. 
Ursula  had  been  with  us  a  good  while,  strolling  about  on 
her  husband's  arm  ;  then  he  had  sent  her  in  to  bed,  and 
we  two  remained  out  together. 

How  soft  they  were,  those  faint,  miisty,  summer  stars  ! 
what  a  mysterious,  perfumy  haze  they  let  fall  over  us  I  A 
haze  through  which  all  around  seemed  melting  away  in  de- 
licious intangible  sweetness,  in  which  the  very  sky  above 
our  heads — the  shining,  world-besprinkled  sky — was  a  thing 
felt  rather  than  seen. 

"  How  strange  all  seems  !  how  unreal ! "  said  John,  in  a 
low  voice,  when  he  had  walked  the  length  of  the  garden  in 
silence.     "  Phineas,  how  very  strange  it  seems  \" 

"  What  seems  ?  " 

"  What  ? — oh,  everything.'"'  He  hesitated  a  minute. 
"  No,  not  everything — but  som.ething  which  to  me  seems 
now  to  fill  and  be  mixed  wj)  with  all  I  do,  or  think,  or  feel. 


256  JOHIS"    HALIFAX. 

Something  you  do  not  know — but  to-night  Ursula  said  I 
might  tell  you." 

Nevertheless  he  was  several  minutes  before  he  told  me. 

"  This  pear-tree  is  full  of  fruit — is  it  not  ?  How  thick 
they  hang ;  and  yet  it  seems  but  yesterday  that  Ursula  and 
I  were  standing  here,  trying  to  count  the  blossoms." 

He  stopped — touching  a  branch  with  his  hand.  His 
voice  sank  so,  I  could  hardly  hear  it. 

"  Do  you  know,  Phineas,  that  Avhen  this  tree  is  bare — 
we  shall,  if  with  God's  blessing  all  goes  well — we  shall  have 
—a  little  child." 

I  wrung  his  hand  in  silence. 

"  You  cannot  imagine  how  strange  it  feels.  A  child — 
hers  and  mine — little  feet  to  go  pattering  about  our  house 
— a  little  voice  to  say — Think  that  by  Christmas-time  I 
shall  be  a.  father." 

He  sat  down  on  the  garden-bench,  and  did  not  speak  for 
a  long  time. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  at  last,  "if,  when  I  was  born,  mi/ 
father  was  as  young  as  I  am  ;  whether  he  felt  as  I  do  now. 
You  cannot  think  what  an  awful  joy  it  is  to  be  looking 
forward  to  a  child  ;  a  little  soul  of  God's  giving,  to  be 
made  fit  for  His  eternity.  How  shall  we  do  it  !  we  that  are 
both  so  ignorant,  so  young — she  will  be  only  just  nineteen 
when,  please  God,  her  baby  is  born.  Sometimes,  of  an 
evening,  we  sit  for  hours  on  this  bench,  she  and  I,  talking 
of  what  we  ought  to  do,  and  how  we  ought  to  rear  the 
little  thing,  until  we  fall  into  silence,  awed  at  the  blessing 
that  is  coming  to  us." 

"God  will  help  you  both,  and  make  you  wise." 

"We  trust  He  will ;  and  then  we  are  not  afraid."' 

A  little  while  longer  I  sat  by  John's  side,  catching  the 
dim  outline  of  his  face,  half  uplifted,  looking  towards  those 
myriad  worlds,  which  we  are  taught  to  believe,  and  do  be- 
lieve, are  not  more  precious  in  the  Almighty's  sight  than 
one  living  human  soul. 

But  he  said  no  more  of  the  hope  that  was  coming,  or  of 
the  thoughts  which,  in  the  holy  hush  of  that  summer 
night,  had  risen  out  of  the  deep  of  his  heart.     And  though 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  257 

after  this  time,  they  never  again  formed  themselves  into 
words,  yet  he  knew  well  that  not  a  hope,  or  joy^  or  fear  of 
his,  whether  understood  or  not,  could  he  unshared  by  me. 

In  the  winter,  when  the  first  snow  lay  on  the  ground, 
the  little  one  came. 

It  was  a  girl — I  think  they  had  wished  for  a  son  ;  but 
they  forgot  all  about  it  when  the  tiny  maiden  ajipeared. 
She  was  a  pretty  baby — at  least,  all  the  women-kind  said 
so,  from  Mrs.  Jessop  down  to  Jacl,  who  left  our  poor  house 
to  its  own  devices,  and  trod  stately  in  Mrs.  Halifax's,  ex- 
hibiting to  all  beholders  the  mass  of  v/hite  draperies  with 
the  infinitesimal  human  morsel  inside  them,  Avhich  she 
vehemently  declared  was  the  very  image  of  its  father. 

For  that  young  father — 

But  I — what  can  /  say  ?  How  should  /  tell  of  the  joy 
of  a  man  over  his  first-born  ? 

I  did  not  see  John  till  a  day  afterwards — when  he  came. 
into  our  house,  calm,  happy,  smiling.  But  Jael  told  me. 
that  when  she  first  placed  his  baby  in  his  arms,  he  had 
wept  like  a  child. 

The  little  maiden  grew  with  the  snow-drops.  Winter 
might  have  dropped  her  out  of  his  very  lap,  so  exceedingly 
fair,  pale,  and  pure-looking  was  she.  I  had  never  seen,  or 
at  least  never  noticed,  any  young  baby  before  ;  but  she  crept 
into  mv  heart  before  I  was  aware.  I  seem  to  have  a  clear 
remembrance  of  all  the  data  in  her  still  and  quiet  infancy, 
from  the  time  her  week-old  fingers,  with  their  tiny  pink 
nails — a  ludicrous  picture  of  her  father's  hand  in  little — 
made  me  smile  as  they  closed  over  mine. 

She  was  named  ]\Iuriel — ;ifter  the  rather  peculiar  name 
of  John's  mother.  Her  OAvn  mother  would  have  it  so  ; 
only  wishing  out  of  her  full  heart,  happy  one  I  that  there 
should  be  a  slight  alteration  made  in  the  second  name. 
Therefore  the  baby  was  called  Muriel  Joy — Muriel  Joy 
Halifax. 

That  name — beautiful,  sacred,  and  never-to-be-forgotten 
among  us — I  write  it  now  with  tears. 

****** 

In  December,  1802,  she  was  born — our  Muriel.     And  on 
17 


258  JOHJT    HALIFAX. 

February  9th — alas  !  I  have  need  to  remember  the  date  ! 
—she  formally  received  her  name.  We  all  dined  at  John's 
house — Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jessop,  my  father  and  I. 

It  was  the  first  time  my  father  had  taken  a  meal  under 
any  roof  but  his  own,  for  twenty  years.  \Ye  had  not  ex- 
pected him  ;  since^  when  asked  and  entreated,  he  only  shook 
his  head  ;  but  just  when  we  were  all  sitting  down  to  the 
table,  Ursula  at  the  foot,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  lips 
dimpling  with  a  housewifely  delight,  that  everything  was 
so  nice  and  neat,  she  startled  us  by  a  little  cry  of  pleasure. 
And  there,  in  the  doorway,  stood  my  father  ! 

His  broad  figure,  but  slightly  bent  even  now,  his  smooth- 
shaven  face,  withered,  but  of  a  pale  brown  still,  with  the 
hard  lines  softening  down,  and  the  keen  eyes  kinder  than 
they  used  to  be  ;  dressed  carefully  in  his  First-day  clothes, 
the  stainless  white  kerchief  supporting  his  large  chin,  his 
Quakers  liat  in  one  hand,  his  stick  in  the  other,  looking  in 
at  us,  a  half-amused  twitch  mingling  with  the  gravity  of 
his  mouth — thus  he  stood — thus  I  see  thee,  0  my  dear  old 
father. 

The  young  couple  seemed  as  if  they  never  could  welcome 
him  enough.  He  only  said,  "l  thank  thee,  John,"  "I 
thank  thee,  Ursula  ; "  and  took  his  place  beside  the  latter, 
giving  no  reason  why  he  had  changed  his  mind  and  come. 
Simple  as  the  dinner  was,  simple  as  befitted  those  who, 
their  guests  knew,  could  not  honestly  afford  luxuries  ; 
though  there  were  no  ornaments  save  the  centre  nosegay  of 
laurestinus  and  white  Christmas  roses — I  do  not  think  King 
George  himself  ever  sat  down  to  a  nobler  feast. 

Afterwards,  we  drew  merrily  round  the  fire,  or  watched 
outside  the  window  the  thickly-falling  snow. 

"  It  has  not  snowed  these  two  months,"'  said  John — 
'^^  never  since  the  day  our  little  girl  was  born." 

And  at  that  moment,  as  if  she  heard  herself  mentioned, 
and  was  indignant  at  our  having  forgotten  her  so  long,  the 
little  maid  up-stairs  set  up  a  cry — that  unmistakable  child's 
cry,  which  seems  to  change  the  whole  atmosphere  of  a  house- 
hold. 

My  father  gave  a  start — he  had  never  seen  or  expressed 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  259 

i  wish  to  see  Jolm/s  daughter.  We  knew  he  did  not  like 
babies.  Again  the  little  helpless  wail ;  Ursula  rose  and  stole 
away- -Abel  Fletcher  looked  after  her  with  a  curious  ex- 
pression, then  began  to  say  something  about  going  back  to 
the  tan-yard. 

"  Do  not.  pray  do  not  leave  us,"  John  entreated  ;  "  Ur- 
sula wants  to  show  you  our  little  lady." 

My  father  put  out  his  hands  in  deprecation  ;  or  as  if  de  • 
siring  to  thrust  from  him  a  host  of  thronging,  battling 
thoughts.  Still  came  faintly  down  at  intervals  the  tiny 
voice,  dropping  into  a  soft  coo  of  pleasure,  like  a  wood-dove 
in  its  nest — every  mother  knows  the  sound.  And  then 
Mrs.  Halifax  entered,  holding  in  her  arms  her  little  winter- 
flower,  her  baby-daughter. 

Abel  Fletcher  just  looked  at  it  and  her — closed  his  eyes 
against  both,  and  looked  no  more. 

Ursula  seenjcd  pained  a  moment,  but  soon  forgot  it  in 
the  general  admiration  of  her  treasure. 

f  She  might  well  come  in  a  snow-storm,"  said  Mrs. 
Jessop,  taking  tlie  child.  "  She  is  just  like  snow,  so  soft 
and  white." 

"And  so  soundless — she  hardly  ever  cries.  She  just 
lies  in  this  way  half  the  day  over,  cooing  quietly  with  her 
eyes  shut.  There,  she  has  caught  your  dress  fast.  Now, 
was  there  ever  a  two  months'  old  baby  so  quick  at  noticing 
things  ?  and  she  does  it  all  with  her  fingers — she  touches 
everything  ; — ah  !  take  care,  doctor,"  the  mother  added, 
reproachfully,  at  a  loud  slam  of  the  door,  which  made  the 
baby  tremble  all  over. 

''1  never  knew  a  child  so  susceptible  of  sound,"  said 
John,  as  he  began  talking  to  it,  and  soothing  it ; — how 
strange  it  was  to  see  him  !  and  yet  it  seemed  quite  natural 
already.  "  I  think  even  now  she  knows  the  difference  be- 
tween her  mother's  voice  and  mine  ;  and  any  sudden  noise 
always  startles  -her  in  this  wa3^" 

"  She  must  have  astonishingly  quick  hearing,"  said  the 
doctor,  slightly  annoyed.  Ursula  wisely  began  to  talk  of 
something  else — showed  Muriel's  eyelashes,  very  long  for 
such  a  baby — and  descanted   on   the   color   of   her   eyes, 


'^60  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

that  fruitful  and  never-ending  theme  of  mothers  and 
friends. 

"  I  think  they  are  like  her  father's  ;  yes,  certainly  like 
her  father's.  But  we  have  not  many  opportunities  of  judg- 
ing, for  she  is  such  a  lazy  young  damsel,  she  hardly  ever 
opens  them — we  should  often  fancy  her  asleep,  but  for  that 
little  soft  coo  ;  and  then  she  will  wake  up  all  of  a  sudden. 
There  now  !  do  you  see  her  ?  Come  to  the  window,  my 
beauty  !  and  show  Dr.  Jessop  your  bonny  brown  eyes." 

They  were  bonny  eyes  !  lovely  in  shape  and  color,  deli- 
cately fringed  ;  but  there  was  something  strange  in  their 
expression — or  rather,  in  their  want  of  it.  Many  babies 
have  a  round,  vacant  stare — but  this  was  no  stare,  only  a 
wide,  full  look — a  look  of  quiet  blankness — an  ujiseeing 
look. 

It  caught  Dr.  Jessop's  notice.  I  saw  his  air  of  vexed 
dignity  change  into  a  certain  anxiety. 

■"  Well,  whose  are  they  like — her  father's  or  mine  ?  His, 
I  hope — it  will  be  the  better  for  her  beauty.  "  Nay,  we'll 
excuse  all  compliments." 

"  I — I  can't  exactly  tell.  I  could  judge  better  by  candle- 
light.'^ 

"We'll  have  candles." 

"  No — no  !  Had  we  not  better  put  it  off  altogether  till 
another  day  ? — I'll  call  in  to-morrow,  and  look  at  her  eyes." 

His  manner  Avas  hesitating  and  troubled.    John  noticed  it. 

"  Love,  give  her  to  me.     Go  and  get  us  lights,  will  you  ?  " 

When  she  was  gone,  John  took  his  bal^y  to  the  window, 
gazed  long  and  intently  into  her  little  face,  then  at  Dr. 
Jessop.  "  Do  you  think — no — it's  not  possible — that  there 
can  be  anything  the  matter  with  the  child's  eyes  ?  " 

Ursula  coming  in,  heard  the  last  words. 

"What  was  that  you  said  about  baby's  eyes  ?" 

No  one  answered  her.  All  were  gathered  in  a  group  at 
ihe  window,  the  child  being  held  on  her  father's  lap,  while 
Dr.  Jessop  was  trying  to  open  the  small  white  lids,  kept 
80  continually  closed.  At  last  the  baby  uttered  a  little  cry 
of  pain — the  mother  darted  forward,  and  clasped  it  almost 
savagely  to  her  breast. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  261 

"  I  will  not  have  my  baby  hurt  !  There  is  nothing 
wrong  with  her  sweet  eyes.  Go  away  ;  you  shall  not  touch 
her,  John." 

"  Love  ! " 

She  melted  at  that  low,  fond  word  ;  leaned  against  his 
shoulder — trying  to  control  her  tears. 

"  It  shocked  me  so — the  bare  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
0  !  husband,  don't  let  her  be  looked  at  again." 

"  Only  once  agaiti,  my  darling.  It  is  best.  Then  we 
shall  be  quite  satisfied.     Phineas,  give  me  the  candle." 

The  words — caressing,  and  by  strong  constraint,  made 
calm  and  soothing — were  yet  firm.  Ursula  resisted  no 
more,  but  let  him  take  ]\Iuricl — little,  unconscious,  cooing 
dove  !  Lulled  by  her  father's  voice,  she  once  more  opened 
her  eyes,  wide.  Dr.  Jessop  passed  the  candle  before  them 
many  times,  once  so  close  that  it  almost  touched  her  face  ; 
but  the  full,  quiet  eyes  never  blenched  nor  closed.  He  set 
the  light  down. 

"Doctor  !  "  whispered  the  father,  in  a  wild  apjjeal  against 
— ay,  it  was  against  certainty.  He  snatched  the  candle, 
and  tried  the  experiment  himself. 

■'  She  does  not  see  at  all.     Can  she  be  blind  ?  " 

"  Born  blind." 

Yes,  those  pretty  baby  eyes  were  dark — quite  dark. 
There  was  nothing  painful  nor  unnatural  in  their  look, 
save,  perhaps,  the  blankness  of  gaze  which  I  have  before 
noticed.  Outwardly,  their  organization  was  perfect ;  but 
in  the  fine  inner  mechanism  was  something  wrong — some- 
thing wanting.  She  never  had  seen — never  would  see — in 
this  world. 

"Blind!"  The  word  was  uttered  softly,  hardly  above 
a  breath,  yet  the  mother  heard  it.  She  pushed  every  one 
aside,  and  took  the  child  herself.  Herself,  with  a  des- 
perate incredulity,  she  looked  into  those  eyes,  which  never 
could  look  back  either  her  agony  or  her  love.  Poor 
mother  ! 

"John  !  John  !  oh,  John  !" — the  name  rising  into  a  cry, 
as  if  he  could  surely  help  her.  He  came  and  took  her  in 
his  arms — took  both,  wife  and  babe.     She  laid  her  head  on 


262  JOHX   HALIFAX. 

nis  shoulder  in  bitter  weeping.     "  Oh,  John  !  it  is  so  hard. 
Oiir  pretty  one — our  own  little  cliild  ! " 

John  did  not  speak,  but  only  held  her  to  him — close  and 
fast.  A¥hen  she  was  a  little  calmer,  he  whispered  to  her 
the  comfort — the  sole  comfort  even  her  husband  could 
give  her — through  v/hose  will  it  was  that  this  affliction  came. 

"And  it  is  more  an  affliction  to  you  than  it  will  be  to 
her,  poor  pet ! "  said  Mrs.  Jessop,  as  she  wiped  her  friendly 
eyes.  "  She  will  not  miss  what  she  never  knew.  She  may 
be  a  happy  little  child.     Look,  how  she  lies  and  smiles.'' 

But  the  mother  could  not  take  that  consolation  yet.  She 
walked  to  and  fro,  and  stood  rocking  her  baby,  mute  in- 
deed, but  Avith  tears  falling  in  showers.  Gradually  her 
anguish  wept  itself  away,  or  was  smothered  down,  lest  it 
should  disturb  the  little  creature  asleep  on  her  breast. 

Some  one  came  behind  her,  and  j)laced  her  in  the  arm- 
chair, gently.  It  Avas  my  father.  He  sat  doAvn  by  her, 
taking  her  hand. 

"  Grieve  not,  Ursula.  I  had  a  little  brother  who  was 
blind.     He  was  the  happiest  creature  I  ever  kncAV." 

My  father  sighed.  We  all  marvelled  to  see  the  Avonder- 
ful  softness,  even  tenderness,  AA'hich  had  come  into  him. 

"  Give  me  thy  child  for  a  minute."  Ursula  laid  it 
across  his  knees  ;  he  put  his  hand  solemnly  on  the  baby- 
breast.  "  God  bless  this  little  one  !  Ay,  and  she  shall  be 
blessed." 

These  words,  spoken  Avitli  as  full  assurance  as  the  pro- 
phetic benediction  of  the  departing  patriarchs  of  old,  struck 
us  all.  We  looked  at  little  Muriel  as  if  the  blessing  Avere 
already  upon  her  ;  as  if  the  mysterious  touch  which  had 
sealed  up  her  eyes  for  ever,  had  left  on  her  a  sanctity  like 
as  of  one  Avho  has  been  touched  by  the  finger  of  God. 

"  ]S[ow,  children,  I  must  go  home,"  said  my  father. 

They  did  not  detain  us  ;  it  was  indeed  best  that  the  poor 
young  parents  should  be  left  alone. 

"You  will  come  again  soon  ?"  begged  Ursula,  tenderly 
clasping  the  hand  Avhich  he  had  laid  upon  her  curls  as  he 
rose,  with  another  murmured  "God  bless  thee  !" 

"  Perhaps.     We  never  knoAv.     Be  a  good  wife  to  thy 


JOHJSr    HALIFAX.  263 

husband,  my  girl.  And  John,  never  be  thou  harsh  to  her, 
nor  too  hard  upon  her  little  failings.  She  is  but  young — 
but  young." 

He  sighed  again.  It  was  plain  to  see  he  was  thinking  of 
another  than  Ursula. 

As  we  walked  down  the  street,  he  spoke  to  me  only  once 
or  twice,  and  then  of  things  which  startled  me  by  their 
strangeness — things  which  had  happened  a  long  time  ago  ; 
sayings  and  doings  of  mine  in  my  childhood,  which  1  Jiad 
not  the  least  idea  he  had  either  known  of  or  remembered. 

When  we  got  in-doors,  I  asked  if  I  should  come  and  sit 
with  him  till  his  bed-time. 

"  No — no  ;  thee  looks  tired,  and  I  have  a  business  letter 
to  write.     Better  go  to  thy  bed  as  usual." 
•    I  bade  him  good-night,  and  was  going,  when  he  called 
me  back. 

"  How  old  art  thee,  Phineas — twenty-four  or  five  ?  " 

"  Twenty-five,  father." 

"Eh!  so  much?"  He  pot  his  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
and  looked  down  on  me  kindly,  even  tenderly.  "  Thee 
art  but  weakly  still,  but  thee  must  pick  up,  and  live  to 
be  as  old  a  man  as  thy  father.  Good-night.  God  be  with 
thee,  my  son  ! " 

I  left  him.  I  was  hapjiy.  Once  1  had  never  expected 
my  old  father  and  I  would  have  got  on  together  so  well,  or 
loved  one  another  so  dearly. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  Jael  came  into  my  room,  and 
sat  down  on  my  bed's  foot,  looking  at  me.  I  had  been 
dreaming  strangely,  about  my  own  childish  days,  and  about 
my  father  and  mother  when  we  were  young. 

What  Jael  told  me — by  slow  degrees,  and  as  tenderly  as 
when  she  was  my  nurse  years  ago — seemed  at  first  so  unreal 
as  to  be  like  a  part  of  the  dream. 

At  ten  o'clock,  when  she  had  locked  up  the  house,  she 
had  come  as  usual  to  the  parlor-door,  to  tell  my  father  it 
was  bed-time.  He  did  not  answer,  being  sitting  with  his 
back  to  the  door,  apparently  busy  writing.    So  she  went  away. 

Half-an-hour  afterwards,  she  came  again.  He  sat  there 
still — he  had  not  moved.     One  hand   supported  his  head  ; 


364  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

the  other,  the  fingers  stiffly  holding  the  pen,  lay  on  the 
table.  He  seemed  intently  gazing  on  what  he  had  written. 
It  ran  thus  : 

"  Good  Friend, 

"  To-morrow  I  shall  be—" 

But  there  the  hand  had  stopped — for  ever. 

0  dear  father  !  on  that  to-morrow  thou  wert  with  God  ! 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

It  was  the  year  1812.  I  had  lived  for  ten  years  as  a 
brother,  in  my  adopted  brother's  house,  whither  he  had 
brought  me  on  the  day  of  my  father's  funeral ;  entreating 
that  I  should  never  leave  it  again.  For,  as  was  shortly 
afterwards  made  clear,  fate — say  Providence — was  now 
inevitably  releasing  him  from  a  bond,  from  which,  so  long 
as  my  poor  father  lived,  John  would  never  have  released 
himself.  It  was  discovered  that  the  profits  of  the  tanning 
trade  had  long  been  merely  nominal — that  of  necessity,  for 
the  support  of  our  two  families,  the  tan-yard  must  be  sold, 
and  the  business  confined  entirely  to  the  flour-mill. 

At  this  crisis,  as  if  the  change  of  all  things  broke  her 
stout  old  heart,  which  never  could  bend  to  any  new  ways 
— Jael  died.  We  laid  her  at  my  father's  and  mother's 
feet — poor  old  Jael  !  and  that  grave-yard  in  St.  Mary's 
Lane  now  covered  all  who  ever  loved  me,  all  who  were  of 
my  youth  day — my  very  own. 

So  thought  I — or  might  have  thought — but  that  John 
and  Ursula  then  demanded  with  one  voice,  "  Brother, 
come  home." 

I  resisted  long  ;  for  it  is  one  of  my  decided  opinions,  that 
married  people  ought  to  have  no  one,  be  the  tie  ever  so 
close  and  dear,  living  permanently  with  them,  to  break  the 
sacred  duality — no,  let  me  say  the  unity  of  their  home. 

I  wished  to  try  and  work  for  my  living,  if  that  were  pos- 
giljle — if  not,  that  out  of  the  wreck  of  my  father's  trade 
might  be  found  enough  to  keep  me,  in  some  poor  way. 
But  John  Halifax  would  not  hear  of  that.  And  Ursula — 
she  was  sitting  sewing,,  while  the  little  one  lay  on  her  lap, 
cooing  softly  with  shut  eyes — Ursula  took  my  hand  to  play 
with  Muriel's.  The  baby-fingers  closed  over  mine — "  See 
there,  Phineas  ;  she  wants  you  too."     So  I  stayed. 

265 


366  JOHlSr    HALIFAX. 

Perhaps  it  was  on  this  account,  that  better  than  all  hia 
other  children,  better  than  anything  on  earth  except  him- 
self, I  loved  John's  eldest  daughter,  little  blind  Muriel. 

He  had  several  children  now.  The  dark  old  house,  and 
the  square  old  garden,  were  alive  with  their  voices  from 
morning  till  night.  First,  and  loudest  always  was  Guy — ■ 
born  the  year  after  Muriel.  He  was  very  like  his  mother, 
and  her  darling.  After  him  came  two  more,  Edwin  and 
Walter.  But  Muriel  still  remained  as  "  sister  " — the  only 
sister  either  given  or  desired. 

If  I  could  find  a  name  to  describe  that  child,  it  would  be 
not  the  one  her  happy  mother  gave  her  at  her  birth,  but 
one  more  sacred,  more  tender.  She  was  better  than  Joy 
— she  was  an  embodied  Peace. 

Her  motions  were  slow  and  tranquil — her  voice  soft — 
every  expression  of  her  little  face,  extraordinarily  serene. 
Whether  creeping  about  the  house,  with  a  foot-fall  silent  as 
snow,  or  sitting  among  us,  either  knitting  busily  at  her 
father's  knee,  or  listening  to  his  talk  and  the  children's 
play,  everywhere  and  always,  Muriel  was  the  same.  No 
one  ever  saw  her  angry,  restless,  or  sad.  The  soft  dark 
calm  in  which  she  lived  seemed  never  broken  by  the  trou- 
bles of  this  our  troublous  world. 

She  Avas,  as  I  have  said,  from  her  very  babyhood,  a 
living  peace.  And  such  she  was  to  us  all,  during  those  ten 
struggling  years,  when  our  household  had  much  to  contend 
with,  much  to  endure.  If  at  night,  her  father  came  home 
jaded  and  worn,  sickened  to  the  soul  by  the  hard  battle  he 
had  to  fight  daily,  hourly,  with  the  outside  world,  Muriel 
would  come  softly  and  creep  into  his  bosom,  and  he  was 
comforted.  If,  busying  herself  about,  doing  faithfully  her 
portion  too,  that  the  husband  when  he  came  in  of  evenings 
might  find  all  cheerful  and  never  know  how  heavy  had  been 
the  household  cares  during  the  day — if,  at  times,  Ursula's 
voice  took  too  sharp  a  tone — at  sight  of  Muriel  it  softened 
at  once.  ISTo  one  could  speak  any  but  soft  and  sweet  words 
when  the  blind  child  was  by. 

Yet,  I  think  either  parent  would  have  looked  aiuazed, 
had  any  one  pitied  them  for  having  a  blind  child.    The  loss 


JOHN-  HALIFAX.  267 

—a  loss  only  to  them,  and  not  to  lier,  the  darling  I — be- 
came familiar,  and  ceased  to  wound  ;  the  blessedness  Avas 
ever  new.  "  Ai/,  and  she  shall  he  blessed,"  had  said  my 
dear  father.  So  she  was.  From  her,  or  for  her,  her 
2:)arents  never  had  to  enduie  a  single  pain.  Even  the  sick- 
nesses of  infancy  and  childhood,  of  which  the  three  others 
had  their  natural  share,  always  passed  her  by,  as  if  in  pity. 
Nothing  ever  ailed  Muriel. 

The  spring  of  1813  was  an  era  long  remembered  in  oui 
family.  Scarlet  fever  went  through  the  house — safely,  but 
leaving  much  care  behind.  When  at  last  they  all  came 
round,  and  we  were  able  to  gather  our  pale  little  flock  to  a 
garden  feast,  nnder  the  big  old  pear-tree,  it  was  with  the 
trembling  thankfulness  of  those  who  have  gone  through 
great  perils,  hardly  dared  to  be  recognized  as  such  till  they 
were  over. 

"Ay,  thank  God  it  is  over  !  "  said  John,  as  he  put  his 
arm  round  his  wife,  and  looked  in  her  worn  face,  where 
still  her  own  smile  lingered — her  bright  brave  smile,  that 
nothing  could  ever  drive  away.  "  And  now  we  must  try 
and  make  a  little  holiday  for  you.'' 

"  Nonsense  !  I  am  as  Avell  as  possible.  Did  not  Dr. 
Jessop  tell  me,  this  morning,  I  was  looking  younger  than 
ever  ?  I — a  mother  of  a  family,  thirty  years  old  ?  Pray, 
Uncle  Phineas,  do  I  look  my  age  ?  " 

I  could  not  say  she  did  not — especially  now.  But  she 
Avore  it  so  gracefully,  so  carelessly,  that  I  saw — ay,  and 
truly  her  husband  saw — a  sacred  beaut}^  about  her  faded 
cheek,  more  lovely  and  loveable  than  all  the  bloom  of  her 
youth.  Happy  vroman  !  who  was  not  afraid  of  growing 
old. 

"  Love  " — John  usually  called  her  "  Love  " — putting  it  at 
the  beginning  of  a  sentence,  as  if  it  had  been  her  natural 
Christian  name — which,  as  in  all  infant  households,  had 
been  gradually  dropped  or  merged  into  the  universal  title 
of  "  mother."  My  name  for  her  was  always  emphatically 
*' The  Mother" — the  truest  t3^pe  of  motherhood  I  ever 
i£new. 

"Love,"  her  husband  began,  after  a  long  look  in  hei 


268  JOITN"    HALIFAX. 

face — all,  John,  thine  was  altered  too,  but  himself  was  the 
last  thing  he  thought  of — "  Say  what  yon  like — I  know 
what  we'll  do  :  for  the  children's  sake.  Ah,  that's  her 
weak  point, — see,  Phineas,  she  is  yielding  now.  We'll  go 
for  three  months  to  Longfield." 

Now  Longfield  was  the  Utoj)ia  of  our  family,  old  and 
young.  A  very  simple  family  we  must  have  been — for  this 
Longfield  was  only  a  small  farm-honse,  about  six  miles  off, 
where  once  we  had  been  to  tea,  and  where  ever  since  we 
had  longed  to  live.  For,  pretty  as  our  domain  had  grown, 
it  was  still  in  the  middle  of  a  town,  and  the  children,  like 
all  naturally-reared  children,  craved  after  the  freedom 
of  the  country — after  corn-fields,  hay-fields,  nuttings,  black- 
berryings — delights  hitherto  known  only  at  rare  intervals, 
when  their  father  could  spare  a  whole  long  day,  and  be  at 
once  the  defence  and  cheer,  the  sun  and  the  shield,  of  the 
happy  little  band. 

"  Hearken,  children  !  father  says  we  shall  go  for  three 
whole  months  to  live  at  Longfield." 

The  three  boys  set  up  a  shout  of  ecstasy. 

"  I'll  swim  boats  down  the  stream,  and  catch  and  ride 
every  one  of  the  horses.     Hurrah  ! "  shouted  Guy. 

"  And  I'll  see  after  the  ducks  and  chickens,  and  watch 
all  the  threshing  and  winnowing,"  said  Edwin,  the  practical 
and  grave. 

"  And  I'll  get  a  'ittle  'amb  to  jVay  wid  me,"  lisped  Walter 
—still  "  the  baby" — or  considered  such,  and  petted  accord- 
ingly. 

"  But  what  does  my  little  daughter  say  ?  "  said  the  father, 
turning — as  he  always  turned,  at  the  lightest  touch  of  those 
soft,  blind  fingers,  creeping  along  his  coat-sleeve.  "  What 
will  Muriel  do  at  Longfield  ?  " 

"Muriel  will  sit  all  day  and  hear  the  birds  sing." 

"  So  she  shall,  my  blessing  I"  He  often  called  her  his 
"  blessing," — Avhich  in  truth  she  was.  To  see  her  now, 
leaning  her  cheek  against  his — the  small  soft  face,  almost 
a  miniature  of  his  own,  the  hair,  a  paler  shade  of  the  same 
bright  color,  curling  in  the  same  elastic  rings — they  looked 
less  like  ordinary  father  and  daughter  than  like  a  man 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  269 

and  his  good  angel  ;  the  visible  embodiment  of  the  best 
half  of  his  soul.  So  she  was  ever  to  him,  this  child  of  hia 
youth — his  first-born  and  his  dearest. 

The  Longfield  plan  being  once  started  father  and  mother 
and  I  began  to  consult  together  as  to  ways  and  means  ; 
what  should  be  given  up,  and  what  increased,  of  our  ab- 
solute luxuries,  in  order  that  the  children  might  this  sum- 
mer— possibly  every  summer — have  the  glory  of  ''  living  in 
the  country."  Of  these  domestic  consultations  there  was 
never  any  dread,  for  tliey  were  always  held  in  public. 
There  were  no  secrets  in  our  house.  Father  and  mother, 
though  sometimes  holding  different  opinions,  had  but  one 
thought,  one  aim — the  family  good.  Thus,  even  in  our 
lowest  estate,  there  had  been  no  bitterness  in  our  poverty  ; 
we  met  it,  looked  it  in  the  face,  often  even  laughed  at  it. 
For  it  bound  us  altogether,  hand  in  hand  ;  it  taught  us 
endurance,  self-dependence,  and,  best  of  all  lessons,  self- 
renunciation.  I  think,  one's  whole  after-life  is  made  easier 
and  more  blessed,  by  having  known  what  it  was  to  be  very 
poor  Avhen  one  was  young. 

Our  fortunes  were  rising  now,  and  anj^  little  pleasure  did 
not  take  near  so  much  contrivance.  We  found  we  could 
manage  the  Longiield  visit — ay,  and  a  horse  for  John  to  ride 
to  and  fro — without  any  worse  sacrifice  than  that  of  leaving 
Jenny — now  Mrs.  Jem  Watkins,  but  our  cook  still — in  the 
house  at  Norton  Bury,  and  doing  with  one  servant  instead 
of  two.  Also,  though  this  was  not  j^ublicly  known  till  after- 
wards, by  the  mother's  renouncing  a  long-promised  silk 
dress — the  only  one  since  her  marriage,  in  which  she  had 
determined  to  astonish  John  by  choosing  the  same  color  as 
that  identical  grey  gown  he  had  seen  hanging  up  in  the 
kitchen  at  Enderley. 

"  But  one  would  give  up  anything,"  she  said,  ''  that  the 
children  might  have  such  a  treat,  and  that  father  might  have 
rides  backwards  and  forwards  through  green  lanes  all 
summer.  Oh,  how  I  wish  we  could  always  live  in  the 
country  ! " 

"Do  yoii  ? "  And  John  looked — much  as  he  had  looked 
at  long-tailed  grey  ponies  in  his  bridegroom  days — long- 


270  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

ing  to  give  her  everything  she  desired.  "  Well,  perl]aps  we 
may  manage  it  some  time." 

"When  our  ship  comes  in — namely,  that  money  which 
Eichard  Brithwood  will  not  pay,  and  John  Halifax  will  not 
go  to  law  to  make  him.  Nay,  father  dear,  I  am  not  going  to 
quarrel  with  any  one  of  your  crotchets."  She  spoke  with  a 
fond  pride,  as  she  did  always,  even  when  arguing  against  the 
too-Quixotic  carrying  out  of  the  said  crotchets.  "  Perhaps, 
as  the  reward  of  forbearance,  the  money  will  come  some 
day  when  we  least  expect  it ;  then  John  shall  have  his 
heart's  desire,  and  start  the  cloth-mills  at  Enderley." 

John  smiled,  half-saclly.  Every  man  has  a  hobby — this 
was  his,  and  had  been  for  fifteen  years.  Not  merely  the 
making  a  fortune  as  he  still  firmly  believed  it  could  be 
made,  but  the  position  of  useful  power,  the  wide  range  of 
influence,  the  infinite  opportunities  of  doing  good. 

"  No,  love  ;  I  shall  never  be  'patriarch  of  the  valley,'  as 
Phineas  used  to  call  it.  The  yew-hedge  is  too  thick  for  me, 
eh,  Phineas  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  cried  Ursula — we  had  told  her  this  little  in- 
cident of  our  boyhood — "you  have  got  half  through  it 
already.  Everybody  in  Norton  Bury  knows  and  respects 
3^ou.  I  am  sure,  Phineas,  you  might  have  heard  a  pin  fall 
at  the  meeting  last  night,  when  he  spoke  against  hanging 
the  Luddites.  And  such  a  shout  as  rose  when  he  ended— 
oh,  how  proud  I  Avas  ! " 

'' Of  the  shout,  love?" 

•'  Nonsense  ! — but  of  the  cause  of  it.  Proud  to  see  my 
husband  defending  the  poor  and  the  oppressed — ^^oud  to 
see  him  honored  and  looked  up  to,  more  and  more  every 
year,  till — " 

"  Till  it  may  come  at  last  to  the  prophecy  in  your  birth- 
day verse — '  Her  husband  is  known  in  the  gates  ;  he  sitteth 
among  the  elders  of  the  land.'" 

Mrs.  Halifax  laughed  at  me  for  reminding  her  of  this,  but 
allowed  that  she  would  not  dislike  its  being  fulfilled. 

"  And  it  will  be  too.  He  is  already  '  known  in  the  gates  ;' 
known  far  and  near.  Think  how  many  of  our  neighbors 
come  to  John  to  settle  their  differences,  instead  of  going  to 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  271 

law  !  And  liow  many  poachers  has  he  not  persuaded  out  of 
their  dishonest — "  , 

'■  Illegal/'  corrected  John. 

''Well,  their  illegal  ways,  and  made  decent,  respectable 
men  of  them  !  Then,  see  how  he  is  consulted,  and  his 
opinion  followed,  by  rich  folk  as  well  as  poor  folk,  all  about 
the  neighborhood.  I  am  sure  John  is  as  po])ular,  and  has 
as  much  influence,  as  many  a  member  of  parliament." 

John  smiled  with  an  amused  twitch  about  his  mouth,  but 
he  said  nothing.  He  rarely  did  say  anything  about  him- 
self— not  even  in  his  own  household.  The  glory  of  his  life 
was  its  unconsciousness — like  our  own  silent  Severn,  how- 
ever broad  and  grand  its  current  might  be,  that  course 
seemed  the  natural  channel  into  which  it  flowed. 

"  There's  Muriel,"  said  the  father,  listening. 

Often  thus  the  child  slipped  away,  and  suddenly  we  heai-d 
all  over  the  house  the  sweet  sounds  of  "Muriel's  voice,"  as 
some  one  had  called  the  old  hai'psichord.  AVhen  almost  a 
baby,  she  would  feel  her  way  to  it,  and  And  out  first  har- 
monies, then  tunes,  with  that  quickness  and  delicacy  of  ear 
peculiar  to  tlie  blind. 

"  How  well  she  plays  !  I  wish  I  could  buy  her  one  of 
those  new  instruments  they  call  '  piano-fortes  ; '  I  was  look- 
ing into  the  mechanism  of  one  the  other  da}'." 

"  She  would  like  an  organ  better.  You  should  have  seen 
her  face  in  the  Abbey  church  this  morning." 

"  Hark  !  she  has  stopped  playing.  Guy,  run  and  bring 
your  sister  here,"  said  the  father,  ever  yearning  after  his 
darling. 

Guy  came  back  with  a  wonderful  story  of  two  gentlemen 
in  the  parlor,  one  of  whom  had  patted  his  head — "  such  a 
grand  gentleman,  a  great  deal  grander  than  father  ! " 

That  was  true,  as  regarded  the  brioht  nankeens,  the  blue 
coat  with  gold  buttons,  and  the  showiest  of  cambric  ker- 
chiefs swathing  him  up  to  the  very  chin.  To  this  "  grand  '* 
personage  John  bowed  formally,  but  his  wife  flushed  up  in 
surprised  recognition. 

"  It  is  so  long  since  I  had  the  hapjjiness  of  meeting  Miss 
March,  that  I  conclude  Mrs.  Halifax  has  forgotten  me  ? " 


272  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  No,  Lord  Luxmore,  allow  me  to  introduce  my  husband. " 

And,  I  fancied  some  of  Miss  IVJ^arch's  old  hauteur  returned 
to  the  mother's  softened  and  matronly  mien  ; — pride,  but 
not  for  herself  or  in  herself,  now.  For,  truly,  as  the  two 
men  stood  together — though  Lord  Luxmore  had  been  hand- 
some in  his  youth,  and  was  universally  said  to  have  as  fine 
manners  as  the  Prince  Eegent  himself — any  woman  might 
well  have  held  her  head  loftily,  introducing  John  Halifax  as 
''my  husband." 

"  Of  the  two,  the  nobleman  was  least  at  his  ease,  for  the 
welcome  of  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halifax,  though  courteous, 
was  decidedly  cold.  They  did  not  seem  to  feel,  and,  if 
rumor  spoke  true.  I  doubt  if  any  honest,  virtuous,  middle- 
class  fathers  and  mothers  Avould  have  felt — that  their  house 
was  greatly  honored  or  sanctified  by  the  presence  of  the 
Earl  of  Luxmore. 

But  the  nobleman  was,  as  I  have  said,  wonderfully  fine- 
mannered.     He  broke  the  ice  at  once. 

"  Mr.  Halifax,  I  have  long  wished  to  know  you.  Mrs. 
Halifax,  my  daughter  encouraged  me  to  pay  this  im- 
promj)tu  visit.  ^'' 

Here  ensued  polite  inquiries  after  Lady  Caroline  Brith- 
wood  ;  we  learned  that  she  was  just  returned  from  abroad, 
and  Avas  entertaining,  at  the  Mythe  House,  her  father  and 
brother. 

"  Pardon — I  was  forgetting  my  son — Lord  Ravenel." 

The  youth  thus  presented,  merely  boAved.  He  was  about 
eighteen  or  so,  tall  and  spare,  Avitli  thin  features,  and  large 
soft  eyes.  He  soon  retreated  to  the  garden-door,  where  he 
stood,  Avatching  the  boys  play,  and  shyly  attempting  to  make 
friends  Avith  Muriel. 

'*  I  believe  Ravenel  has  seen  you  years  ago,  Mrs.  Hali- 
fax. His  sister  made  a  great  pet  of  him  as  a  child.  He 
has  just  comjjleted  his  education — at  the  college  of  St. 
Omer,  Avas  it  not,  William  ?  " 

"  The  Catholic  college  of  St.  Omer,"  repeated  the  boy. 

"  Tut — Avhat  matters  !  ''  said  the  father,  sharply.  "  Mr. 
Halifax,  do  not  imagine  we  are  a  Catholic  family  still.  I 
hope  the  next  Earl  of  Luxmore  Avill  be  able  to  take  the 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  273 

oaths  and  his  seat,  whether  or  no  we  get  Emancipation. 
By  the  bye,  you  uphold  the  Bill  ?  " 

John  assented  ;  expressing  his  conviction,  then  unliappily 
a  rare  one,  that  everj'  one's  conscience  is  free  ;  and  that  all 
men  of  blameless  life  ought  to  be  protected  by,  and  allowed 
to  serve  the  state,  whatever  be  their  religious  opinions. 

"  Mr.  Halifax,  I  entirely  agree  with  you.  A  wise  man 
esteems  all  faiths  alike  worthless." 

"  Excuse  me,  my  lord,  that  was  the  very  last  thing  1 
meant  to  say.  I  hold  every  man's  faith  so  sacred,  that  no 
other  man  has  a  right  to  interfere  with  it,  or  to  question  it. 
The  matter  lies  solely  between  himself  and  his  Maker." 

''  Exactly  I  What  facility  of  expression  your  husband 
has.  ^Ers.  Halifax  !  He  must  be — indeed,  I  have  heard  he 
is — a  first-rate  public  speaker." 

The  wife  smiled,  wife-like  ;  but  John  said,  hurriedly — 

"  I  have  no  pretension  or  ambition  of  the  kind.  I  merely 
now  and  then  try  to  put  plain  truths,  or  what  I  believe  to 
be  such,  before  the  people,  in  a  form  they  are  able  to  un- 
derstand.." 

"  Ay,  that  is  it.  My  dear  sir,  the  people  have  no  more 
brains  than  the  head  of  my  cane  (his  Eoyal  Highness's 
gift,  Mrs.  Halifax)  ;  they  must  be  led  or  driven  like  a  flock 
of  sheep.  AVe" — a  lordly  "  we  ! " — ''  are  their  proper  shep- 
herds. But,  then,  we  want  a  middle  class,  at  least,  an 
occasional  voice  from  it,  a " 

"  A  shepherd's  dog,  to  give  tongue,"  said  John,  dryly. 
"  In  short,  a  public  orator.     In  the  House,  or  out  of  it  'i  " 

"Both."  And  the  earl  tapped  his  boot  with  that  royal 
cane,  smiling.  "  Yes  ;  I  see  you  apprehend  me.  But,  be- 
fore we  commence  that  somewhat  delicate  subject,  there 
was  another  on  which  I  desired  my  agent,  Mr.  Brown,  to 
obtain  your  valuable  opinion." 

"You  mean,  when,  j^^sterday,  he  offered  me,  by  3'our 
lordship's  express  desire,  the  lease,  lately  fallen  in,  of  your 
cloth-mills  at  Enderley  ?  " 

Now,  John  had  not  told  us  that  ! — why,  his  manner  too 
plainly  showed. 

"  And  all  will  be  arranged,  I  trust.     Brown  savs  you 
18 


374  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

have  long  wished  to  take  the  mills  ;  I  shall  be  most  happy 
to  have  you  for  a  tenant." 

"  My  lord,  as  I  told  your  agent,  it  is  impossible.  We 
will  say  no  more  about  it." 

John  crossed  over  to  his  wife  with  a  cheerful  air.  She 
sat  looking  gnive  and  sad. 

Lord  Luxmore  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  keen-witted 
diplomatic  personage  ;  undoubtedly  he  owned,  or  could 
assume,  that  winning  charm  of  manner  which  had  de- 
scended in  perfection  to  his  daughter.  Both  qualities  it 
pleased  him  to  exercise  now.  He  rose,  addressing  with 
kindly  frankness  the  husband  and  wife. 

"If  I  may  ask — being  a  most  sincere  well-wisher  of 
yours,  and  a  sort  of  connection  of  Mrs.  Halifax's,  too — why 
is  it  impossible  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  disguise  the  reason  :  it  is  because  I 
have  no  capital." 

Lord  Luxmore  looked  surprised.  "  Surely — excuse  me, 
but  I  had  the  honor  of  being  well  acquainted  with  the  late 
Mr.  March — surely  your  wife's  fortune " 

Ursula  rose,  in  her  old  impetuous  way — "  His  wife's  for- 
tune !  (John,  let  me  say  it  ? — I  will,  I  must !) — of  his 
wife's  fortune,  Lord  Luxmore,  he  has  never  received  one 
farthing.  Richard  Brithwood  keeps  it  back  ;  and  my  hus- 
band would  work  day  and  night  for  me  and  our  children, 
rather  than  go  to  law." 

"  Oh  !  on  principle,  I  suppose  ?  I  have  heard  of  such 
opinions,"  said  the  earl,  witli  the  slightest  ijerceptible 
sneer.     "  And  you  agree  with  him  ?" 

"  I  do,  heartily.  I  would  rather  we  lived  poor  all  our 
days,  than  that  he  should  wear  his  life  out,  trouble  his 
spirit,  perhaps  even  soil  his  conscience,  by  squabbling  with 
a  bad  man  over  money  matters." 

It  was  good  to  see  Ursula  as  she  spoke  ;  good  to  see  the 
look  that  husband  and  wife  interchanged — husband  and 
wife,  different  in  many  points,  yet  so  blessedly,  so  safely 
one  !     Then  John  said — 

"Love,  perhaps  another  subject  than  our  own  affairs 
would  be  more  interesting  to  Lord  Luxmore." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  275 

"  Not  at  all — not  at  all  ! "  And  the  earl  was  evidently 
puzzled  and  annoyed.  "  Such  extraordinary  conduct/' 
he  muttered  :  "  so  very — a-hem  ! — unwise.  If  the  matter 
were  known — caught  up  by  these  newspapers — I  must 
really  have  a  little  conversation  with  Brithwood." 

The  conversation  paused,  and  John  changed  it  entirely, 
by  making  some  remarks  on  the  present  minister,  Mr. 
Perceval. 

"  I  liked  his  last  speech  much.  He  seems  a  clear-headed, 
honest  man,  for  all  his  dogged  opposition  to  the  Bill." 

"  He  will  never  oppose  it  more." 

"  Nay,  I  think  he  will,  my  lord — to  the  death." 

"  That  may  be — and  yet — "  his  lordship  smiled.  "  Mr. 
Halifax,  I  have  just  had  news  by  a  carrier  pigeon — my 
birds  fly  well — most  important  news  for  us  and  our  party. 
Yesterday  in  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  Mr. 
Percival  was  shot." 

We  all  started.  An  hour  ago  we  had  been  reading  his 
speech.     Mr.  Perceval  shot  ! 

"  Oh,  John,"  cried  the  mother,  her  eyes  full  of  tears, 
*'  his  fatherless  children  ! " 

And  for  many  minutes  they  stood,  hearing  the  lament- 
able history,  and  looking  at  their  little  ones  at  play  in  the 
garden  ;  thinking,  as  Jiumy  an  English  father  and  mother 
did  that  day.  of  the  stately  house  in  London,  where  the 
widow  and  orphans  bewailed  their  dead.  He  might  or 
might  not  be  a  great  statesman,  but  he  was  undoubtedly  a 
good  man  ;  many  still  remember  the  shock  of  his  untimely 
death,  and  how,  whether  or  not  they  liked  him  living,  all 
the  honest  hearts  of  England  mourned  for  ]\Ir.  Perceval. 

Possibly,  that  number  did  not  include  the  Earl  of  Lux- 
more. 

"  Requiescat  in  pace  !  I  shall  propose  the  canonization 
of  poor  Bellingham.  For  now  Perceval  is  dead,  there 
will  be  an  immediate  election  ;  and  on  that  election  dependB 
Catholic  Emancipation.  Mr.  Halifax,"  turning  quickly 
round  to  him,  "you  would  be  of  great  use  to  us  in  parlia- 
ment." 

"  Should  I  ?  " 


276  JOHJi    HALIFAX. 


2  5> 


"Will  you — I  like  plain  speaking — will  you  enter  it 

Enter  parliament  !  John  Halifax  in  parliament  !  His 
wife  and  I  were  both  astounded  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
possibility  ;  which,  however,  John  himself  seemed  to  re- 
ceive as  no  novel  idea. 

Lord  Luxmore  continued.  "  I  assure  you  nothing  is 
more  easy  ;  I  can  bring  you  in  at  once,  for  a  borough  near 
here — my  family  borough.'^ 

"Which  you  wish  to  be  held  by  some  convenient  person 
till  Lord  Ravenel  comes  of  age  ?  So  Mr.  Brown  informed 
me  yesterday." 

Lord  Luxmore  slightly  frowned.  8uch  transactions,  as 
common  then  in  the  service  of  the  country  as  they  still  are 
in  the  service  of  the  church,  were  yet  generally  glossed 
over,  as  if  a  certain  discredit  attached  to  them.  The  young 
lord  seemed  to  feel  it ;  at  sound  of  his  name,  he  turned 
round  to  listen,  and  turned  back  again,  blushing  scarlet. 
Not  so  the  Earl,  his  father. 

"  Brown  is — (may  I  offer  you  a  pinch,  Mr.  Halifax  ? — 
what,  not  the  Prince  Eegent's  own  mixture  ?) — Brown  is 
indeed  a  worthy  fellow,  but  too  hasty  in  his  conclusions. 
As  it  happens,  my  son  is  yet  undecided  between  the  church 
— that  is,  the  priesthood — and  politics.  But  to  our  conver- 
sation— Mrs.  Halifax,  may  I  not  enlist  you  on  my  side  ? 
We  could  easily  remove  all  difficulties,  such  as  qualifica- 
tion, etc.  Would  you  not  like  to  see  your  husband  member 
for  the  old  and  honorable  borough  of  Kingswell  ?  " 

"Kingswell!"  It  Avas  a  tumble-down  village,  where 
John  held  and  managed  for  me  the  sole  remnant  of  landed 
property  which  my  jjoor  father  had  left  me.  "  Kingswell  ! 
why  there  are  not  a  dozen  houses  in  the  jDlace." 

"  The  fewer  the  better,  my  dear  madam.  The  election 
would  cost  me  scarcely  any — trouble  ;  and  the  country  be 
vastly  the  gainer  by  your  husband's  talents  and  probity. 
Of  course,  he  will  give  up  the — I  forget  what  is  his  business 
now — and  live  independent.  He  is  made  to  shine  as  a  poli- 
tician :  it  will  be  both  happiness  and  honor  to  myself  to 
have  in  some  way  contributed  to  that  end.  Mr.  Halifax, 
you  will  accept  my  borough  ?  " 


.TOHlSr    HALIFAX,  277 

"  Not   on    any  consideration  your  lordship  could  offer 


me/' 


Lord  Liixmore  scarcely  credited  his  ears.  "  My  dear  sir 
— you  are  the  most  extraordinary — may  I  again  inquire 
your  reasons  ?  " 

"■  I  have  several  ;  one  will  suffice.  Though  I  wish  to  gain 
influence — power  perhaps  ;  still  the  last  thing  I  should 
desire  would  be  political  influence." 

"  You  might  possibly  escape  that  unwelcome  possession," 
returned  the  earl.  "  Half  the  House  of  Commons  is  made 
up  of  harmless  dummies,  who  vote  as  we  bid  them." 

*'  A  character,  my  lord,  for  which  I  am  decidedly  unfitted. 
Until  political  conscience  ceases  to  1)0  a  thing  of  traffic, 
until  the  people  are  allowed  honestly  to  choose  their  own 
honest  representatives,  I  must  decline  being  of  that  num- 
ber.    Shall  we  dismiss  the  subject  ?" 

"With  pleasure,  sir." 

And  courtesy  being  met  by  courtesy,  the  question  so 
momentous  was  passed  over,  and  merged  into  trivialities. 
Perhaps  the  Earl,  who.  as  his  pleasures  palled,  was  under- 
stood to  be  fixing  his  keen  wits  upon  the  pet  profligacy  of 
old  age,  politics — saw,  clearly  enough,  that  in  these  chaotic 
days  of  contending  parties,  when  the  maddened  outcry  of 
the  "  people  "  was  just  being  heard  and  listened  to,  it  might 
be  as  well  not  to  make  an  enemy  of  this  young  man,  avIio, 
with  a  few  more,  stood  as  it  were  midway  in  the  gulf,  now 
slowly  beginning  to  narrow,  between  the  commonalty  and 
the  aristocracy. 

He  stayed  some  time  longer,  and  then  bowed  himself 
away  with  a  gracious  condescension  worthy  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales  himself,  carrying  with  him  the  shy,  gentle  Lord 
Eavenel,  who  had  spoken  scarcely  six  words  the  whole 
time. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  father  and  mother  seemed  both 
relieved. 

"Truly,  John,  he  has  gained  little  by  his  visit,  and  I 
hope  it  may  be  long  before  we  see  an  earl  in  our  quiet 
house  again.     Come  in  to  dinner,  my  children." 

But  his  lordship  had  left  an  uncomfortable  impression 


278  JOHN"   HALIFAX. 

behind  him.  It  lasted  even  until  that  quiet  liour — often 
the  quietest  and  happiest  of  our  day — when,  the  children 
being  all  in  bed,  we  elders  closed  in  round  the  lire. 

Ursula  and  I  sat  there,  longer  alone  than  usual. 

"John  is  late  to-night,"  she  said  more  than  once  ;  and 
I  could  see  her  start,  listening  to  every  foot  under  the  win- 
dow, every  touch  at  the  door-bell ;  not  stirring,  though  :  she 
knew  his  foot  and  his  ring  quite  well  always. 

"  There  he  is  ! "  we  both  said  at  once — much  relieved  : 
and  John  came  in. 

Brightness  always  came  in  with  him.  Whatever  cares 
he  had  without— and  they  were  heavy  enough,  God  knows 
— they  always  seemed  to  slip  off  the  moment  he  entered 
his  own  door  ;  and  whatever  slight  cares  we  had  at  home, 
we  put  them  aside  ;  as  they  could  not  but  be  put  aside, 
nay,  forgotten — at  the  sight  of  him. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Phineas  !  Children  all  right,  my  darling  ? 
A  fire  !  I  am  glad  of  it.  Truly,  to-night  is  as  cold  as  No- 
vember." 

*^' John,  if  you  have  a  weakness,  it  is  for  fire.  You're  a 
regular  salamander." 

He  laughed — warming  his  hands  at  the  blaze.  ''^  Yes,  I 
would  rather  be  hungry  than  cold,  any  day.  Love,  our 
one  extravagance  is  certainly  coals.  A  grand  fire  this  !  I 
do  like  it  so  ! " 

She  called  him  "foolish;"  but  smoothed  down  with  ? 
quiet  kiss  the  forehead  he  lifted  up  to  her  as  she  stood 
beside  him,  looking  as  if  she  would  any  day  have  converted 
the  whole  house  into  fuel,  for  his  own  private  and  partic- 
ular benefit. 

"  Little  ones  all  in  bed,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  they  would  have  lain  awake  half  the  night — 
those  naughty  boys — talking  of  Longfield.  You  never  saw 
children  so  delighted." 

"  Are  they  ?  "  I  thought  the  tone  was  rather  sad,  and 
that  the  father  sat  listening  with  less  interest  than  usual 
to  the  pleasant  little  household  chronicle,  always  Avonderful 
and  always  new,  which  it  was  his  custom  to  ask  for  and 
have,  night  after  night,  when  he  came  home — saying  it 


JOHIiT    HALIFAX.  279 

was  to  him,  after  liis  day's  toil,  like  a  "  babbling  o'  green 
fields." — Soon  it  stopped. 

"John,  dear,  you  are  very  tired  ?" 

'"  Rather." 

"  Have  you  been  very  busy  all  day  ?" 

"Very  busy." 

I  understood,  almost  as  well  as  his  wife  did,  what  those 
brief  answers  indicated ;  so,  stealing  away  to  the  table 
where  Guy's  blurred  copy-])ook  and  Edwin's  astonishing 
addition-sums  were  greatly  in  need  of  Uncle  Ph'ineas,  I 
left  the  fire-side  (u:)rner  to  those  two.  Soon,  John  settled 
himself  in  my  easy  chair,  and  then  one  saw  how  very  weary 
he  was — weary  in  body  and  soul  alike — weary  as  we  seldom 
beheld  him.  It  went  to  my  heart  to  watch  the  listless 
stretch  of  his  large,  strong  frame — the  sharp  lines  about 
his  mouth — lines  which  ought  not  to  have  come  there  in 
his  two-and-thirty  years.  And  his  eyes — they  hardly 
looked  like  John's  eyes,  as  they  gazed  in  a  sort  of  dull 
quietude,  too  anxious  to  be  dreamy,  into  the  red  coals — 
and  nowhere  else. 

At  last  he  roused  himself,  and  took  up  his  wife's  work. 

"  More  little  coats  !     Love,  you  are  always  sewing." 

"Mothers  must — you  know.  And  I  think  never  did 
boys  out-grow  their  things  like  our  boys.  It  is  pleasant, 
too.     If  only  clothes  did  not  Avear  out  so  fast." 

"  Ah  ! "  A  sigh — from  the  very  depth  of  the  father's 
heart. 

"Not  a  bit  too  fast  for  my  clever  fingers,  though,"  said 
Ursula,  quickly.  "  Look,  John,  at  this  lovely  braiding. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  do  any  more  of  it.  I  shall  certainly 
have  no  time  to  waste  over  fineries  at  Longfield." 

Her  husband  took  up  the  fanciful  work,  admired  it,  and 
laid  it  down  again.     After  a  pause  he  said — 

"  Should  you  be  very  much  disappointed  if — if  we  do  not 
go  to  Longfield  after  all  ?  " 

"  Not  go  to  Longfield  !  "  The  involuntary  exclamation 
showed  how  deep  her  longing  had  been. 

"Because  I'm  afraid — it  is  hard,  I  know — but  I  ani 
afraid  we  cannot  manage  it.     Are  you  very  sorry  ?  " 


280  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  frankly  and  truthfully.  "  Not  so 
much  for  myself,  but — the  children." 

"Ay,  the  poor  children." 

Ursula  stitched  away  rapidly  for  some  moments,  till  the 
grieved  look  faded  out  of  her  face  ;  then  she  turned  it,  all 
cheerful  once  more,  to  her  husband.  "  Now,  John,  tell 
me.     Never  mind  about  the  children.     Tell  me." 

He  told  her,  as  was  his  habit  at  all  times,  of  some  losses 
which  had  to-day  befallen  him — bad  debts  in  his  business 
— which  would  make  it,  if  not  imjiracticable,  at  least  im- 
prudent, to  enter  on  any  new  expenses  that  year.  Nay, 
he  must,  if  possible,  retrench  a  little.  Ursula  listened, 
without  question,  comment,  or  complaint. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  she  said  at  last,  very  gently. 

"  All." 

"  Then  never  mind.  I  do  not.  We  will  find  some  other 
pleasures  for  the  children.  We  have  so  many  pleasures, 
ay,  all  of  us.  Husband,  it  is  not  so  hard  to  give  up  this 
one." 

He  said,  in  a  whisper,  low  almost  as  a  lover's,  "  I  could 
give  up  anything  in  the  world  but  them  and  thee." 

So,  with  a  brief  information  to  me  at  su]3per-time — 
"Uncle  Phineas,  did  you  hear?  we  cannot  go  to  Long- 
field," — the  renunciation  was  made,  and  the  subject 
ended.  For  this  year,  at  least,  our  Arcadian  dream  was 
over. 

But  John's  troubled  looks  did  not  pass  away.  It  seemed 
as  if  this  night  his  long  toil  had  come  to  that  crisis  when 
the  strongest  man  breaks  down — or  trembles  within  a  hair's 
breadth  of  breaking  down  ;  conscious,  too,  horribly  con- 
scious, that  if  so,  himself  will  be  the  least  part  of  the  uni- 
versal ruin.  His  face  was  haggard,  his  movements  irritable 
and  restless  ;  he  started  nervously  at  every  sound.  Some= 
times  even  a  hasty  word,  and  uneasiness  about  trifles, 
showed  how  strong  was  the  effort  he  made  at  self-controL 
Ursula,  usually  by  far  the  most  quick-tempered  of  the  two, 
became  to-night  mild  and  patient.  She  neither  watched 
nor  questioned  him — v.ise  woman  as  she  was  ;  she  only  sat 
still,  busying  herself  over  her  work,  speaking  now  and  then 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  281 

of  little  things,  lest  lie  should  notice  her  anxiety  about 
him.     He  did  at  last. 

"  Nay,,  I  am  not  ill,  do  not  be  afraid.  Only  my  head 
aches  so — let  me  lay  it  here,  as  the  children  do." 

His  wife  made  a  place  for  it  on  her  shoulder  ;  there  it 
rested — the  poor  tired  head,  until  gradually  the  hard  and 
painful  expression  of  the  features  relaxed,  and  it  became 
John's  own  natural  face — as  quiet  as  any  of  the  little  faces 
on  their  pillows  up-stairs,  Avhence,  doubtless,  slumber  had 
long  banished  all  anticipation  of  Longfield.  At  last,  he, 
too,  fell  asleep. 

Ursula  held  up  her  finger,  that  I  might  not  stir.  The 
clock  in  the  corner,  and  the  soft  sobbing  of  the  llame  on 
the  hearth,  were  the  only  sounds  in  the  parlor.  8he  sewed 
on  quietly,  to  the  end  of  her  work  ;  then  let  it  drop  on  her 
lap,  and  sat  still.  Her  cheek  leaned  itself  softly  against 
John's  hair,  and  in  her  eyes,  which  seemed  so  intently  con- 
templating the  little  frock,  I  saw  large  bright  tears  gather 
— fall.  But  her  look  was  serene,  nay,  happy  ;  as  if  she 
thought  of  these  beloved  ones,  husband  and  children — her 
very  own — preserved  to  her  in  health  and  peace, — ay,  and 
in  that  which  is  better  than  either,  the  unity  of  love.  For 
that  priceless  blessing,  for  the  comfort  of  being  Jn's  comfort, 
for  the  sweetness  of  bringing  up  these  his  children  in  tiie 
fear  of  God  and  in  the  honor  of  their  father — she,  true 
wife  and  mother  as  she  was,  would  not  have  exchanged  the 
wealth  of  the  whole  world. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  We  all  started,  as  a  sudden  ring  at  the 
bell  pealed  through  the  house,  waking  John,  and  frighten- 
ing the  very  children  in  their  beds.  All  for  a  mere  letter, 
too,  brought  by  a  lacquey  of  Lord  Luxmore's.  Having — 
isomewhat  indimantlv — ascertained  this  fact,  the  mother 
ran  up-stairs  to  quiet  her  little  ones.  When  she  came 
down,  John  still  stood  with  the  letter  in  his  hand.  He  had 
not  told  me  what  it  was  ;  when  I  chanced  to  ask,  he  an- 
swered in  a  low  tone — '"Presently!"  On  his  wife's  en- 
trance, he  gave  her  the  letter  without  a  word. 

Well  might  it  startle  her  into  a  cry  of  joy.  Truly  the 
dealings  of  heaven  to  us  were  wonderful  ! 


282  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Mr.  John  Halifax. 
"  Sir, 

"Your  wife,  Ursula  Halifax,  having  some  time  since 
attained  the  age  fixed  by  her  late  father  as  her  majority,  1 
will,  within  a  rrionth  after  date,  pay  over  to  your  order  all 
moneys,  principal  and  interest,  accruing  to  her,  and  hither- 
to left  in  my  hands,  as  trustee,  according  to  the  will  of  the 
late  Henry  March,  Esquire. 

"  I  am,  sir, 

"Yours,  &c., 

''  ElCHAED  BrITHWOOD.'* 

"  Wonderful — wonderful ! " 

It  was  all  I  could  say.  That  one  had  man,  for  his  own 
purposes,  should  influence  another  bad  man  to  an  act  of 
justice — and  that  their  double  evil  should  be  made  to  work 
out  our  good  !  Also,  that  this  should  come  Justin  our  time 
of  need — when  John's  strength  seemed  ready  to  fail. 

"  Oh  John — John  !  now  you  need  not  work  so  hard  !  " 

Til  at  was  his  wife's  first  cry,  as  she  clung  to  him  almost 
in  tears. 

He  too  was  a  good  deal  agitated.  This  sudden  lifting  of 
the  burthen  made  him  feel  how  heavy  it  had  been — how 
terrible  the  responsibility — how  sickening  the  fear. 

"  Thank  God  !  In  any  case,  you  are  quite  safe  now — you 
and  the  children  ! " 

He  sat  down,  very  pale.  His  wife  knelt  beside  him,  and 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck — I  quietly  went  out  of  the  room. 

When  I  came  in  again,  they  were  standing  by  the  fire- 
side— both  cheerful,  as  two  people  to  whom  had  happened 
such  unexpected  good  fortune,  might  naturally  !  e  expected 
to  appear.  I  offered  my  congratulations  in  rather  a  comi- 
cal vein  than  otherwise  ;  we  all  of  us  had  caught  John's 
habit  of  putting  things  in  a  comic  light  whenever  he  felt 
them  keenl}^ 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  rich  man  now — mind  you  treat  your  brother 
with  extra  respect,  Phineas." 

"  And  your  sister  too. 

"  '  For  she  sail  walk  in  silk  attire. 
And  siller  hae  to  spare.' 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  283 

She's  quite  young  and  handsome  still — isn't  she  ?  How 
magnificent  she'll  look  in  that  grey  silk  gown  !  " 

"  John,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  ! — you — the 
father  of  a  family  !  you — that  are  to  be  the  largest  mill- 
owner  at  Enderley — " 

He  looked  at  her  fondly,  half  deprecatingly.  "  Not  till  I 
have  made  you  and  the  children  all  safe — as  I  said." 

"We  are  safe — quite  safe — when  we  have  you.  Oh, 
Phineas  !  make  him  see  it  as  I  do.  Make  him  understand 
that  it  will  be  the  happiest  day  in  his  wife's  life,  when  she 
knows  him  happy  in  his  heart's  desire." 

We  sat  a  little  while  longer,  talking  over  the  strange 
change  in  our  fortunes — for  they  wished  to  make  me  feel 
that  now,  as  ever,  what  was  theirs  was  mine ;  then  Ursula 
took  her  candle  to  depart. 

"Love  !"  John  cried,  calling  her  back  as  she  shut  the 
door,  and  watching  her  stand  there  patient — watching  with 
something  of  the  old  mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
"Mrs.  Halifax,  when  shall  I  liave  the  houur  of  ordering 
your  long-tailed  grey  ponies  'i  " 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Not  many  weeks  afterwards,  we  went  to  live  at  Longfield. 
which  hencefortli  became  the  family  home  for  many  years. 

Longfield  !  happy  Longfield  !  little  nest  of  love,  and  joy, 
and  peace — where  the  children  grew  np,  and  we  grew  old 
— where  season  after  season  brought  some  new  change  ripen- 
ing in  US  and  around  us — where  summer  and  winter,  day 
and  night,  the  hand  of  God's  providence  was  over  our  roof, 
blessing  our  goings  out  and  our  comings  in,  our  basket  and 
our  store  ;  crowning  us  with  the  richest  blessing  of  all,  that 
we  were  made  a  household  where  "  brethren  dv/elt  together 
in  unity."  Beloved  Longfield  !  my  heart,  slow  j)ulsing  as 
befits  one  near  the  grave,  thrills  warm  and  young  as  I  re- 
member thee  ! 

Yet  how  shall  I  describe  it — the  familiar  spot ;  so  familiar 
that  it  seems  to  need  no  description  at  all. 

It  was  but  a  small  place  when  Ave  first  came  there.  It 
led  out  of  the  high-road  by  a  field-gate — the  AYhite  Gate ; 
from  which  a  narroAV  path  wound  down  to  a  stream,  thence 
up  a  green  slope  to  the  house  ;  a  mere  farm-house,  nothhig 
more.  It  had  one  parlor,  three  decent  bed-rooms,  kitchen, 
and  out-houses  ;  Ave  built  extempore  chambers  out  of  the 
barn  and  cheese-room.  In  one  of  these  the  boys,  Guy  and 
EdAvin,  slejjt ;  against  the  Ioav  roof  of  Avhich  the  father  gen- 
erally knocked  his  head  every  morning  when  lie  came  to  call 
the  lads.  Its  windows  Avere  open  all  summer  round,  and 
birds  and  bats  used  oftentimes  to  fly  in,  to  the  great  delight 
of  the  youtliful  inmates. 

Another  infinite  pleasure  to  tlie  little  folk  was  that,  for 
the  first  year,  the  farm-house  kitchen  Avas  made  our  din- 
ing-room. There,  through  the  oj)en  door,  Edwin's  pigeons, 
Muriel's  two  doves,  and  sometimes  a  stately  hen,  walked  in 
and  out  at  pleasure.     Whether  our  live-stock,  brought  up 

284 


JOHX    HALIFAX.  285 

in  the  law  of  kindness,  were  as  well-trained  and  M-ell-be- 
haved  as  our  children,  I  cannot  tell  ;  but  certain  it  is  that 
we  never  found  any  harm  from  this  system,  necessitated 
by  our  early  straits  at  Longfield — this  "  liberty,  fraternity, 
and  equality." 

Those  words,  in  themselves  true  and  lovely,  but  wrested 
to  such  false  meaning,  whose  fatal  sound  was  now  dying 
out  of  Europe,  merged  in  the  equally  false  and  fatal  shout 
of  "  Gloire  !  gloire!"  remind  me  of  an  event  which  I  be- 
lieve was  the  first  that  broke  the  delicious  monotony  of 
our  new  life. 

It  Avas  one  September  morning.  Mrs.  Halifax,  the  chil- 
dren, and  I  were  down  at  the  stream,  planning  a  bridge 
across  it,  and  a  sort  of  stable,  where  John's  horse  might  be 
put  up — the  mother  had  steadily  resisted  the  long-tailed 
grey  ponies.  For  with  all  the  necessary  improvements  at 
Longfield,  with  the  large  settlement  that  John  insisted 
upon  making  on  his  wife  and  children,  before  he  Avould  use 
in  his  business  any  portion  of  her  fortune,  Ave  found  we 
were  by  no  means  so  rich  as  to  make  any  gi-eat  change  in 
our  way  of  life  advisable.  And,  after  all,  the  mother's  best 
luxuries  were  to  see  her  children  merry  and  strong,  her 
husband's  face  lighter  of  its  care,  and  to  know  he  was  now 
placed  beyond  doubt  in  the  position  he  had  always  longed 
for  ;  for  was  he  not  this  very  day  gone  to  sign  the  lease  of 
Enderley  Mills  ? 

Mrs.  Halifax  had  just  looked  at  her  watch,  and  she  and 
I  were  Avondering,  Avith  quite  a  childish  pleasure,  Avhether 
he  were  not  noAV  signing  the  important  deed,  when  Guy 
came  running  to  say  a  coach-and-four  Avas  trying  to  enter 
the  White  Gate. 

"  Who  can  it  be  ? — But  they  must  be  stopped,  or  thej-^ll 
spoil  John's  new  gravel  road  that  he  takes  such  pride  in. 
Uncle  Phineas,  would  you  mind  going  to  see  ?  " 

Who  should  I  see,  but  almost  the  last  person  I  expected — ■ 
who  had  not  been  beheld,  hardly  spoken  of,  in  our  house- 
hold these  ten  years — Lady  Caroline  Brithwood,  in  her 
travelling  habit  of  green  cloth,  her  velvet  riding-hat,  Avith 
its  Prince  of  Wales'  feathers,  gayer  than  ever — though  her 


286  JOHK    HALIFAX. 

pretty  face  was  withering  under  the  paint,  and  her  lively 
manner  growing  coarse  and  bold. 

''  Is  this  Longfield  ? — Does  Mr.  Halifax — mon  Dieu,  Mr. 
Fletcher,  is  that  you  ?  " 

She  held  out  her  hand  witli  the  frankest  condescension, 
and  in  the  brightest  humor  in  the  world.  She  insisted  on 
sending  on  the  carriage,  and  accompanying  me  down  to 
the  stream,  for  a  '"'  surprise*' — a  "'  scene." 

Mrs.  Halifax,  seeing  the  coach  drive  on,  had  evidently 
forgotten  all  about  it.  She  stood  in  the  little  dell  which 
the  stream  had  made,  Walter  in  her  arms — her  figure 
thrown  back,  so  as  to  poise  the  child' s  weight.  Her  right 
hand  kept  firm  hold  of  Cluy,  who  avhs  paddling  barefoot  in 
the  stream  ;  Edwin,  the  only  one  of  the  boys  who  never 
gave  any  trouble,  was  soberly  digging  away,  beside  little 
Muriel. 

The  lady  clapped  her  hands.  "  Brava!  hravissima!  a 
charming  family  picture,  Mrs.  Halifax." 

"  Lady  Caroline  !  " 

Ursula  left  her  children,  and  came  to  greet  her  old 
acquaintance,  whom  she  liad  never  once  seen  since  she  was 
Ursula  March.  Perhajis  tiiat  fact  touched  her,  and  it  was 
with  a  kind  of  involuntary  tenderness  that  she  looked  into 
the  sickly  face,  where  all  the  smiles  could  not  hide  the 
wrinkles. 

"  It  is  many  years  since  we  met ;  and  we  are  both  some- 
what altered,  cousin  Caroline." 

"  You  are,  with  those  three  great  boys.  The  little  girl 
yours  also  ? — Oh,  yes,  I  remember  William  told  me — poor 
little  thing  !  "  And  with  uneasy  awe  she  turned  from  our 
blind  Muriel,  our  child  of  peace. 

"  Will  you  come  up  to  the  house  ?  my  husband  has  only 
ridden  over  to  Enderley  ;  he  will  be  home  soon." 

"And  glad  to  see  me,  I  wonder  ?  For  I  am  rather 
afraid  of  that  husband  of  yours — eh,  Ursula  ?  Yet  I 
should  greatly  like  to  stay." 

Ursula  laughed,  and  i-epeated  the  welcome.  She  was  so 
happy  herself — she  longed  to  distribute  her  happiness. 
They  walked,  the  childrens  following  towards  the  house. 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  287 

Under  the  great  walnut-tree,  by  the  sunk  fence  which 
guarded  the  flower-garden  from  the  sheep  and  coavs,  Mrs. 
Halifax  stopped  and  pointed  down  the  green  slope  of  the 
field,  across  the  valley,  to  the  wooded  hills  opposite, 

"Isn't  it  a  pretty  view  ?  "'   said  Guy,  creeping  up  and. 
touching  the  stranger's  gown  ;  our  children  had  lived  too 
much  in  an  atmosphere  of  love  to  know  either  shyness  or 
fear, 

"Very  pretty,  my  little  friend." 

•'  That's  One-tree  Hill,  Father  is  going  to  take  us  all  a 
walk  there  this  afternoon." 

"  Do  you  like  going  walks  with  your  father  V 

"Oh,  don't  we!"  An  electric  smile  ran  through  the 
whole  circle.     It  told  enough  of  the  blessed  home-tale. 

Lady  Caroline  laughed  a  sharp  laugh.  "  Eh,  my  dear, 
I  see  iiow  things  are.  You  don't  regret  having  married 
John  Halifax,  the  tanner  ?" 

"  Regret  ! " 

"  Nay,  be  not  impetuous.  1  always  said  he  was  a  noble 
fellow — so  does  the  earl  now.  And  William — you  can't 
think  what  a  hero  your  husband  is  to  William." 

"  Lord  Ravenel  I  " 

"  Ay,  my  little  brother  that  was — growing  a  young  man 
now — a  frightful  bigot,  wanting  to  make  our  house  as 
Catholic  as  when  two  or  three  of  us  lost  our  heads  for 
King  James.  But  lie  is  a  good  boy — poor  William  I  I  had 
rather  not  talk  about  him." 

Ursula  inquired  courteously  if  her  cousin  Richard  were 
well. 

"  Bah  I — I  suppose  he  is  ;  he  is  always  well.  His  late 
astonishing  honesty  to  Mr.  Halifax  cost  him  a  fit  of  gout — 
mais  n'importe.  If  they  meet,  I  suppose  all  things  Avill  be 
smooth  between  them  ?  " 

"My  husband  never  had  any  ill-feeling  to  Mr.  Brith- 
wood." 

"  I  should  not  bear  him  an  undying  enmity  if  he  had. 
But  you  see  'tis  election  time,  and  the  earl  wishes  to  put  in 
a  gentleman,  a  friend  of  ours,  for  Kingswell,  Mr.  Halifax 
owns  some  cottages  there,  eh  ?  " 


288  JOHN"   HALIFAX. 


ee 


Mr.  Fletcher  does.     My  husband  transacts  business — " 

"Stop  !  stop  ! "'  cried  Lady  Caroline.  "I  don't  under- 
stand business  ;  I  only  know  that  they  want  your  husband 
to  be  friendly  with  mine.     Is  this  plain  enough  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  be  under  no  apprehension.  Mr.  Halifax 
never  bears  malice  against  any  one.  Was  this  the  reason 
of  your  visit;,  Lady  Caroline  ?  " 

"  Eh — mon  Dieu  !  what  would  become  of  us  if  we  were 
all  as  straightforward  as  you.  Mistress  Ursula  ?  But  it 
sounds  charming — in  the  country.  No,  my  dear  ;  I  came — 
nay,  I  hardly  know  why.  Probalily  because  I  liked  to 
come — my  usual  reasoii  for  most  actions.  Is  that  your 
salle-a-manger  ?    Won't  you  ask  me  to  dinner,  ma  cousine  f  " 

"01  course,"  the  mother  said,  though  I  fancied  after- 
wards, the  invitation  rather  weighed  upon  her  mind,  prob- 
ably from  the  doubt  whether  or  no  John  would  like  it. 
But  in  little  things,  as  in  great,  she  had  always  this  safe 
trust  in  him — that  conscientiously  to  do  what  she  felt  to 
be  right,  was  the  surest  way  to  be  right  in  her  husband's 
eyes. 

So  Lady  Caroline  was  our  guest  for  the  day — a  novel 
guest — but  she  made  herself  at  once  familiar  and  pleasant. 
Guy,  a  little  gentleman  from  his  cradle,  installed  himself 
her  admiring  knight  attendant  everywhere  ;  Edwin  brought 
her  to  see  his  pigeons  ;  Walter,  with  sweet,  shy  blushes, 
offered  her  "  a  'ittle  fower  ;  "  and  the  three,  as  the  greatest 
of  all  favors,  insisted  on  escorting  her  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
beautiful  calf  not  a  week  old. 

Laughing,  she  followed  the  boys ;  telling  them  how 
lately  in  Sicily  she  had  been  jiresented  to  a  week-old  prince, 
son  of  Louis  Philippe  the  young  Duke  of  Orleans  and  the 
Princess  Marie- Amelie,  "'  And  truly,  children,  he  was  not 
half  so  pretty  as  your  little  calf,  Ursula,  I  am  sick  oi 
courts  sometimes,  I  would  turn  shepherdess  myself,  if 
we  could  find  a  tolerable  Arcadia." 

"  Is  there  any  Arcadia  like  home  ?" 

"  Home  ! " — Her  face  expressed  the  utmost  loathing, 
fear,  and  scorn.  I  remember  hearing  that  the  'squire 
since  his  return  from  abroad  had  grown  just  like  his  father ; 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  289 

was  (li'uiik  everyday,  and  all  day  long.  "  Is  your  husband 
altered,  Ursula  ?  lie  must  be  quite  a  young  man  still.  Oh, 
what  it  is  to  be  young  !  " 

"John  looks  much  older,  people  say;  but  I  don't  see 
it." 

"  Arcadia  again  !  Can  such  things  be  ?  especially  in 
England,  that  paradise  of  husbands,  where  the  first  husband 
in  the  realm  sets  such  an  illustrious  example.  Hoav  do  you 
stay-at-home  British  matrons  feel  towards  my  friend  the 
Princess  of  Wales  '^  " 

"  God  help  her,  and  make  her  as  good  a  woman  as  she 
is  a  wronged  and  miserable  wife,"  said  Ursula,  sadly. 

'•  Quen/,  Can  a  '  good  woman  '  be  made  out  of  a  '  wronged 
and  miserable  wife  ?'  If  so,  Mrs.  Halifax,  you  should  cer- 
tainly take  out  a  patent  for  the  manufacture." 

The  subject  touched  too  near  home.  Ursula  wisely 
avoided  it,  by  inquiring  if  Lady  Caroline  meant  to  remain 
in  England. 

"  Cela  depend."  She  turned  suddenly  grave.  "Your 
fresh  air  makes  me  feel  weary.     Shall  we  go  in-doors  ?" 

Dinner  was  ready  laid  out — a  plain  meal ;  since  neither 
the  father  nor  any  of  us  cared  for  table  dainties  ;  but  I 
think  if  we  had  lived  in  a  hut,  and  fed  off  wooden  platters 
on  potatoes  and  salt,  our  repast  would  have  been  fair  and 
orderly,  and  our  hut  the  neatest  that  a  hut  could  be.  For 
the  mother  of  the  family  had  in  perfection  almost  the  best 
genius  a  woman  can  have — the  genius  of  tidiness. 

We  were  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  our  simple  dinner- 
table,  where  no  difference  was  ever  made  for  anybody.  We 
had  little  plate,  but  plenty  of  snow-white  napery  and  pretty 
china  ;  and  what  Avith  the  scents  of  the  flower-garden  on 
one  side,  and  the  green  waving  of  the  elm-tree  on  the  other, 
it  was  as  good  as  dining  out-of-doors. 

The  boys  were  still  gathered  round  Lady  Caroline,  in  the 
little  closet  off  the  dining-room  where  lessons  were  learnt ; 
Muriel  sat  as  usual  on  the  door-sill,  petting  one  of  her  doves 
that  used  to  come  and  perch  on  her  head  and  her  shoulder, 
of  their  own  accord,  when  I  heard  the  child  say  to  her- 
self— 


290  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"Father's  coming." 

''Where,  darling  ? "' 

"Up  the  farm-yard  way.  There — he  is  on  the  gravel- 
walk.  He  has  stopped  ;  I  daresay  it  is  to  pull  some  of  the 
jessamine  that  grows  over  the  well.  Xow,  fly  away,  dove  ! 
Father's  here." 

And  the  next  minute  a  general  shout  echoed,  '*  Father's 
here  ! " 

He  stood  in  the  doorway,  lifting  one  after  the  other  up 
in  his  arms  ;  having  a  kiss  and  a  merry  word  for  all — this 
good  father  ! 

0  solemn  name,  which  Deity  Himself  claims  and  owns. 
Happy  these  children,  who  in  its  fullest  sense  could  under- 
stand the  word  "■'father  I"  to  whom,  from  the  dawn  of 
their  little  lives,  their  father  was  what  all  fathers  should  be 
— the  truest  representative  here  on  earth  of  that  Father  in 
heaven,  who  is  at  once  justice,  wisdom,  and  perfect  love. 

Happy,  too — most  blessed  among  women — the  woman 
who  gave  her  children  such  a  father  ! 

Ursula  came — for  his  eye  was  wandering  in  search  of 
her — and  received  the  embrace  without  which  he  never  left 
her  or  returned. 

"  All  rightly  settled,  John  ?" 

"Quite  settled." 

"  I  am  so  glad."  AVith  a  second  kiss,  not  often  bestowed 
in  public,  as  congratulation.  He  was  going  to  tell  more, 
when  Ursula  said,  rather  hesitatingly — '•  We  have  a  visitor 
to-day." 

Lady  Caroline  came  out  of  her  corner,  laughing.  "  You 
did  not  expect  me,  I  see.     Am  I  welcome  ?  " 

"Any  welcome  that  Mrs.  Halifax  has  given  is  also  mine." 

But  John's  manner,  though  polite,  was  somewhat  con- 
strained ;  and  he  felt,  as  it  seemed  to  my  observant  eye, 
more  surprise  than  gratification  in  this  incursion  on  his 
quiet  home.  Also  I  noticed  that  when  Lady  Caroline,  in 
the  height  of  her  condescension,  would  have  Muriel  close 
to  her  at  dinner,  he  involuntarily  drew  his  little  daughter 
to  her  accustomed  place  beside  himself. 

"  She  always  sits  here,  thank  you." 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  291 

The  table-talk  was  chiefly  between  the  lady  and  her  host  : 
she  rarely  talked,  to  women  when  a  man  was  to  be  had. 
Conversation  veered  V)etween  the  Emperor  Napoleon  and 
Lord  AVellington,  Lord  William  Bentinek,  and  Sardinian 
policy,  the  conjugal  squabbles  of  Carlton  House,  and  the 
one-absorbing  political  question  of  this  year — Catholic 
emancijiation. 

"  You  are  a  staunch  supporter  of  the  Bill,  my  father  says. 
Of  course  you  aid  liiiu  in  the  Kingswell  election  to-mor- 
row  : 

"\  can  scarcely  call  it  an  election."  rrlurned  Jolm.  He 
had  been  commenting  on  it  to  us  that  morning  rather  se- 
verely. An  election  I  it  was  merely  a  talk  in  the  King's 
Head  parlor,  a  nomination,  and  sliow  of  hands  by  some 
dozen  poor  laborers,  tenants  of  Mr.  jirithwood  and  Lord 
Tjuxmore,  who  got  a  few  pounds  a-piece  for  their  services, 
— and  the  thing  was  done. 

"  Who  is  the  nominee.  Lady  Caroline  ?" 

"  A  young  gentleman  of  small  fortune,  but  excellent 
parts,  who  returned  with  us  from  Naples." 

The  lady's  manner  being  rather  more  formal  than  she 
generally  used,  John  looked  up  quickly. 

''  The  election  being  to-morrow,  of  course  his  name  is  no 
secret  ?  '^ 

"  Oh,  no  !  Yermilyc.  Mr.  Gerard  Vermilye.  Do  you 
know  him  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  of  him." 

As  he  spoke — either  intentionally  or  no — John  looked 
full  at  Lady  Caroline.  She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  began 
playing  with  her  bracelets.  Both  immediately  quitted  the 
subject  of  Kingswell  election. 

,Soon  after,  we  rose  from  table  ;  and  Guy,  who  had  all 
dinner-time  fixed  his  admiring  gaze  upon  the  "  pretty  lady," 
insisted  on.  taking  her  down  the  garden  and  gathering  for 
her  a  magnificent  arum  lily,  the  mother's  favorite  lily.  I 
suggested  gaining  permission  first  ;  and  was  sent  to  ask  the 
question. 

I  found  John  and  his  wife  in  serious,  even  painful  con- 
versation. 


292  JOHSr    HALIFAX. 

"  Love,"  he  was  saying,  *  -  I  have  known  it  for  very  long  ; 
but  if  she  had  not  come  here^,  I  would  never  have  grieved 
you  by  telling  it." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not  true,"  cried  Ursula,  warmly.  "  The 
world  is  ready  enough  to  invent  cruel  falsehoods  about  us 
women." 

"■  Us  women  !  Don't  say  that,  Ursula.  I  will  not  have 
my  wife  named  in  the  same  breath  with  her." 

"  John  ! " 

"■  I  will  not,  I  say.  You  don't  know  what  it  cost  me 
even  to  see  her  touch  your  hand." 

"  John  !  "  ■ 

The  soft  tone  recalled  him  to  his  better  self.  . 

"  Forgive  me  !  but  I  would  not  have  the  least  taint  come 
near  this  wife  of  mine.  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her 
holding  intercourse  with  a  light  woman — a  woman  false  to 
her  husband. " 

"  I  do  not  believe  it.  Caroline  was  foolish,  she  was  never 
wicked.  Listen  ! — if  this  were  true,  how  could  she  be 
laughing  with  our  children  now  ?  Oh  !  John— think — she 
has  no  children." 

The  deep  pity  passed  from  Ursula's  heart  to  her  hus- 
band's. John  clasped  fondly  the  two  hands  that  were  laid 
on  his  shoulders,  as,  looking  up  in  his  face,  the  happy  wife 
pleaded  silently  for  one  who  all  the  world  knew  was  so 
wronged  and  so  unhappy. 

"  We  will  wait  a  little  before  we  judge.  Love,  you  are 
abetter  Christian  than  I." 

All  afternoon  they  both  showed  more  than  courtesy — 
kindness,  to  this  woman,  at  whom,  as  any  one  out  of  our 
retired  household  would  have  known,  and  as  John  did 
know  well — all  the  world  was  already  pointing  the  finger, 
on  account  of  Mr.  Gerard  Yermilye.  She,  on  her  part, 
with  her  chameleon  power  of  seizing  and  sunning  herself 
in  the  delight  of  the  moment,  was  in  a  state  of  the  highest 
enjoyment.  She  turned  '''^shepherdess,"  fed  the  ^^oultry 
with  Edwin,  pulled  off  her  jewelled  ornaments,  and  gave 
them  to  Walter  for  playthings  ;  nay,  she  even  washed  o3 
her  rouge  at  the  spring,  and  came  in  with  faint  natural 


JOHK    HALIFAX.  293 

roses  upon  lier  faded  cheeks,  .So  huppy  s^lie  seemed,  so  in- 
nocently, childishly  happy  ;  that  more  than  once  I  saw  John 
and  Ursula  exchange  satisfied  looks,  rejoicing  that  they 
had  followed  after  the  divine  charity  which  "thinketh  no 
evil." 

After  tea  we  all  turned  out,  as  was  our  Avont  on  summer 
evenings  ;  the  children  playing  about ;  while  the  father  and 
mother  strolled  up  and  down  the  sloping  field-path,  arm  ii: 
arm  like  lovers,  or  sometimes  he  fondly  leaning  upon  her. 
Thus  they  would  walk  and  talk  together  in  the  twilight^  for 
hours. 

Lady  Caroline  pointed  to  them.  "  liook  !  Adam  and 
Eve  modernized;  Baucis  and  Philemon  when  tliey  were 
young.     Bon  Dieu!  what  it  is  to  be  young  !" 

She  said  this  in  a  gasp,  as  if  wild  with  terror  of  the  days 
that  were  coming  upon  her — tlie  dark  da^^s. 

"  People  are  always  young,"  I  answered,  "  who  love  one 
another  as  these  do." 

"  Love — what  an  old-fashioned  word.  I  hate  it !  It  is 
so — what  would  you  say  in  English  ? — so  decltiraiil.  1 
would  not  cultivate  une  yrande passion  for  the  world." 

I  smiled  at  the  idea  of  the  bond  between  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Halifax  taking  the  Frenchified  character  of  "  wwe  (/m«c/e 
passion." 

"  But  home-love,  married  love,  love  among  children  and 
at  the  fire-side  ; — you  believe  in  that  ?  " 

She  turned  upon  me  her  beautiful  eyes  ;  they  had  a 
scared  look,  like  a  bird's  driven  right  into  the  fowler's  net^, 
"  C'est  impossible — iiupossiUe!  " 

The  word  hissed  itself  out  between  her  shut  teeth — "  im- 
possihle."  Then  she  walked  quickly  on,  and  was  her  lively 
self'  once  more. 

When  the  evening  closed,  and  the  younger  children  were 
gone  to  bed,  she  became  rather  restless  about  the  non-ap- 
pearance of  her  coach.  At  last  a  lacquey  arrived,  on  foot. 
She  angrily  inquired,  ''■'  why  a  carriage  had  not  been  sent 
for  her  >" 

"  Master  didn't  give  orders,  my  lady,"  answered  the  man, 
somewhat  rudely. 


294  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Lady  Caroline  turned  pale — with  anger  or  fear — perhaps 
both. 

"  You  have  not  properly  answered  your  mistress's  ques- 
tion," said  Mr.  Halifax. 

"  Master  says,  sir— begging  my  lady's  pardon  for  repeat- 
ing it — but  he  says,  '  My  lady  went  out  against  his  will,  and 
she  may  come  home  wlien  and  how  she  likes.' " 

"  My  lady  "  burst  out  laughing,  and  laughed  violently 
and  long. 

"  Tell  him  I  will.  Be  sure  you  tell  him  I  will.  It  is  the 
last  and  the  easiest  obedience." 

John  sent  the  lacquey  out  of  the  room  ;  and  Ursula 
said  something  about  "not  speaking  thus  before  a  ser- 
vant." 

"  Before  a  servant  ?  Why,  my  dear,  we  furnish  enter- 
tainment for  our  whole  establishment,  my  husband  and  I. 
AVe  are  at  the  Mythe  what  the  Prince  Reagent  and  the 
Princess  of  Wales  are  to  the  country  at  large.  We  divide 
our  people  between  us  ;  I  fascinate — he  bribes.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
Well  done,  Eichard  Brithwood  !  I  may  come  home  '  when 
and  how  I  like  ? '     Truly,  I'll  use  that  kind  permission." 

Her  eyes  glittered  with  an  evil  fire  ;  her  cheeks  were  hot 
and  red. 

"  Mrs.  Halifax,  I  shall  be  thrown  on  your  hospitality  for 
an  hour  or  two  longer.     Could  you  send  a  letter  for  me  ?  " 

"  To  your  husband  ?     Certainly." 

"  My  husband  ? — Never  ! — Yes,  to  my  linshmid."  The 
first  part  of  the  sentence  was  full  of  fierce  contempt ;  the 
latter,  smothered,  and  slowly  desperate.  "  Tell  me,  Ursula, 
what  constitutes  'i  man  one's  husband  ?  Brutality,  tyranny 
— the  tyranny  which  the  law  sanctions  ?  Or  kindness,  sym- 
pathy, devotion,  everything  that  makes  life  beautiful — 
everything  that  constitutes  happiness  and — " 

"Sin." 

The  word  in  her  ear  was  so  low,  that  she  started  as  if 
conscience  only  had  uttered  it — conscience,  to  whom  only 
her  intents  were  known. 

John  came  forward,  speaking  gravely,  but  not  unkindly. 

••  Lady  Caroline,  I  am  deeply  grieved  that  this  should 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  295 

have  happened  in  my  house,  and  througli  your  visiting  us 
against  your  husband's   wilL" 

"  His  will  ! " 

"  Pardon  me  ;  but  I  think  a  wife  is  bound  to  the  very 
last  to  obey  in  all  things  not  absolutely  wrong,  her  hus- 
band's will.  I  am  glad  you  thought  of  writing  to  Mr.  Brith- 
wood." 

She  shook  her  head,  in  mocking  denial. 

"  May  I  ask,  then — since  I  am  to  have  the  honor  of 
sending  it— to  whom  is  this  letter  ?  " 

*'  To "     I  think  she  would  have  told   a  falsehood,  if 

John's  eyes  had  not  been  so  keenly  fixed  upon  her.  "To 
— a  friend." 

"  Friends  are  at  all  times  dangerous  to  a  lady  who — " 

"  Hates  her  husband — ha  !  ha  !     Especially  male  friends." 

'^  Especially  male  friends." 

Here  Guy,  who  had  lingered  out  of  his  little  bed  most 
unlawfully — hovering  about,  ready  to  do  any  chivalrous 
duty  to  his  idol  of  the  day — came  up  to  bid  her  good-night, 
and  held  up  his  rosy  mouth,  eagerly. 

"I — kiss  a  little  child!  I!" — and  from  her  violent 
laughter,  she  burst  into  a  j^assion  of  tears. 

The  mother  signed  me  to  carry  Guy  away  ;  she  and  John 
took  Lady  Caroline  into  the  parlor,  and  shut  the  door. 

Of  course,  I  did  not  then  learn  what  passed — but  I  did 
afterwards. 

Lady  Caroline's  tears  were  evanescent,  like  all  her  emo- 
tions. Soon  she  became  composed — asked  again  for  writ- 
ing materials — then  countermanded  the  request. 

"  Ko,  I  will  wait  till  to-morrow.  Ursula,  you  will  take 
me  in  for  the  night  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Halifax  looked  appealingly  to  her  husband,  but 
he  gave  no  assent. 

"  Lady  Caroline,  you  should  willingly  stay,  were  it  not, 
as  you  must  know,  so  fatal  a  step.  In  your  position,  you 
should  be  most  careful  to  leave  the  world  and  your  hus- 
band no  single  handle  against  you." 

"  Mr.  Halifax,  what  right  have  you — " 

"  None,  save  that  of  an  honest  man,  who  sees  a  womau 


296  JOHK    HALIFAX. 

cruelly   wronged,    and   desperate   with   lier   wrong ;    who 
would  thankfully  save  her  if  he  could." 

"  Save  me  ?     From  what — or  whom  ?"' 

"  From  Mr.  Gerard  Vermilye,  who  is  now  waiting  down 
the  road,  and  whom,  if  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood  once  flies 
to,  or  even  sees,  at  this  crisis,  she  loses  her  place  among 
honorable  English  matrons  for  ever." 

John  said  this,  with  no  air  of  virtuous  anger  or  con- 
tempt, but  as  the  simple  statement  of  a  fact.  The  con- 
victed woman  dropped  her  face  between  her  hands. 

Ursula,  greatly  shocked,  was  some  time  before  she  spoke. 

''Is  it  true,  Caroline  V 

"  What  is  true  ?  " 

''  That  which  my  husband  has  heard  of  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  cried,  springing  up,  and  dashing  back  her 
beautiful  hair — beautiful  still,  though  she  must  have  been 
five  or  six  and  thirty  at  least—"  Yes,  it  is  true — it  shall  be 
true.  I  shall  break  my  bonds,  and  live  the  life  I  was  made 
for.  I  would  have  done  it  long  ago,  but  for — no  matter. 
Why,  Ursula,  he  adores  me  ;  young  and  handsome  as  he  is, 
he  adores  me.  He  will  give  me  my  youth  back  again,  ay, 
he  will." 

And  she  sang  out  a  French  chanson,  something  about 
"la  liberie  et  ses plaisirs,  la  jeunesse,  V amour." 

The  mother  grew  sterner — any  such  wife  and  mother 
would.  Then  and  there,  compassion  might  have  died  out 
of  even  her  good  heart,  had  it  not  been  for  the  sudden 
noise  over-head  of  children's  feet — children's  chattering. 
Once  more  the  pitiful  thought  came — "(She  has  no  chil- 
dren." 

''  Caroline,"  she  said,  catching  her  gown  as  she  passed, 
''''  when  I  was  with  you,  you  had  a  child  which  only  breathed 
and  died.  It  died  spotless.  When  you  die,  how  dare  you 
meet  that  little  baby  ?  " 

The  singing  changed  to  sobbing.  "  I  had  forgotten. 
My  little  baby  !     Oh,  'ino)i  Dieii,  moii  Dieu  !  " 

Mrs.  Halifax,  taking  in  earnest  those  meaningless 
French  ejaculations,  whispered  something  about  Him 
who  alone  can  comfort  and  help  us  all. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  297 

"  Him  !  I  never  knew  Him^  if  indeed  He  be.  No,  no, 
there  is  no  after-life/' 

Ursula  turned  away  in  horror.  "John,  what  shall  we 
do  with  her  ?     No  home  ! — no  husband  ! — no  God  ! " 

"  He  never  leaves  Himself  without  a  witness.  Look, 
love." 

The  wretched  woman  sat  rocking  to  and  fro — weeping 
and  wringing  her  hands.  "  It  was  cruel — cruel  !  You 
should  not  have  spoken  about  my  baby.     Now — " 

"Tell  me — just  one  word — I  will  not  believe  anybody's 
word  except  your  own.  Caroline,  are  you — still  inno- 
cent ?  " 

Lady  Caroline  shrank  from  her  touch.  "  Don't  hold  me 
so.     You  may  have  one  standard  of  virtue,  I  another." 

"Still,  tell  me." 

"And  if  I  did,  you,  an  'honorable  English  matron' — 
was  not  that  your  husband's  word  ? — would  turn  from  me, 
most  likely  ?  " 

"  She  wall  not,"  John  said.  "  She  has  been  happy,  and 
you  most  miserable." 

"  Oh,  most  miserable." 

That  bitter  groan  went  to  both  their  hearts.  Ursula 
leaned  over  her — herself  almost  in  tears.  •*  Cousin  Caro- 
line, John  says  true — I  will  not  turn  from  you.  I  know 
you  have  been  sinned  against — cruelly — cruelly.  Only 
tell  me  that  you  yourself  have  not  sinned." 

"I  have  'sinned,'  as  you  call  it." 

Ursula  started — drew  closer  to  her  husband.  Neither 
spoke. 

"  Mrs.  Halifax,  why  don't  you  take  away  your  hand  ?" 

«  I  ?_let  me  think.     This  is  terrible.     Oh,  John  !  " 

Again  Lady  Caroline  said,  in  her  sharp,  bold  tone, 
'*  Take  away  your  hand." 

"Husband,  shall  I?" 

"No." 

For  some  minutes  they  stood  together,  both  silent,  with 
this  poor  woman.  I  call  her  "  poor,"  as  did  they  ;  know- 
ing, that  if  a  sufferer  needs  pity,  how  tenfold  more  does  a 
sinner  ! 


298  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

John  spoke  first.  "Cousin  Caroline."  She  lifted  up 
her  head  in  amazement.  "  We  are  your  cousins,  and  we 
wish  to  be  your  friends,  my  wife  and  I.  Will  you  listen  to 
us?" 

She  sobbed  still,  but  less  violently. 

"  Only,  first — you  must  promise  to  renounce  for  ever 
giiilt  and  disgrace." 

"  I  feel  it  none.  He  is  an  honorable  gentleman — he 
loves  me,  and  I  love  him.  That  is  the  true  marriage.  No, 
I  will  make  you  no  such  promise.     Let  me  go." 

• '  Pardon  me — not  yet.  I  cannot  suffer  my  wife's  kins- 
woman to  elope  from  my  own  house,  without  trying  to 
prevent  it." 

"  Prevent  ! — sir  ! — Mr.  Halifax  !  You  forget  who  you 
are,  and  who  I  am — the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Luxmore." 

"  Were  you  the  King's  daughter,  it  would  make  no 
difference.  I  will  save  you  in  spite  of  yourself,  if  I  can. 
I  have  already  spoken  to  Mr.  Vermilye,  and  he  has  gone 
away." 

"  Gone  away  !  the  only  living  soul  that  loves  me.  Gone 
away  !  I  must  follow  him — quick — quick." 

"  You  cannot.  He  is  miles  distant  by  this  time.  He  is 
afraid  lest  this  story  should  come  out  to-morrow  at  Kings- 
well  ;  and  to  be  an  M.  P.  and  safe  from  arrest  is  better  to 
Mr.  Vermilye  than  even  yourself.  Lady  Caroline." 

John's  wife,  unaccustomed  to  hear  him  take  that  cool, 
worldly,  half  sarcastic  tone,  turned  to  him  somewhat  re- 
proachfully ;  but  he  judged  best.  For  the  moment,  this 
tone  had  more  weight  with  the  woman  of  the  world  than 
any  homilies.  She  began  to  be  afraid  of  Mr.  Halifax.  Im- 
pulse, rather  than  resolution,  guided  her,  and  even  these 
impulses  were  feeble  and  easily  governed.  She  sat  down 
again,  muttering — 

"  My  will  is  free.     You  cannot  control  me." 

"  Only  so  far  as  my  conscience  justifies  me  in  preventing 


a  crime." 


'*  A  crime  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  such.     No  sophistries  of  French  philosophy 
on  your  part,  no  cruelty  on  your  husband's,  can  abrogate 


JOHIS"    HALIFAX.  299 

the  one  law,  which  if  you  disown  it  as  God's,  is  still  man's — 
being  necessary  for  the  peace,  honor,  and  safety  of  society." 

''What  law?" 

"  Thou  Hlinlt  not  commit  advllpvy." 

People  do  not  often  utter  this  plain  Bible  woid.  It  made 
Ursula  start,  even  when  spoken  solemnly  by  her  own  hus- 
band. It  tore  from  the  self-convicted  woman  all  the  senti- 
mental disguises  with  which  the  world  then  hid,  and  still 
hides — its  corruptions.  Her  sin  arose  and  stared  her  l)la(kly 
in  the  face — as  sin.     She  cowered  before  it. 

"  Am  I  that  ?  And  William  will  know  it.  Poor  Wil- 
liam ! "  She  looked  up  at  Ursula — for  the  first  time  with 
the  guilty  look  ;  hitherto,  it  had  been  only  one  of  pain  or 
despair.  "Nobody  knows  it,  exce})t  you.  Don't  tell  Wil- 
liam. I  would  have  gone  long  ago,  but  for  him.  He  is  a 
good  boy  ; — don't  let  him  guess  his  sister  was — " 

She  left  the  word  unspoken.  Shame,  seemed  to  crush 
her  down  to  the  earth  ;  shame,  the  precursor  of  saving  peni- 
tence— at  least,  John  thought  so.  lie  quitted  the  room, 
leavhig  her  to  the  ministry  of  his  other  self,  his  wife.  As 
he  sat  down  with  me,  and  told  me  in  a  few  Avords  what 
indeed  I  had  already  more  than  half  guessed,  I  could  not 
but  notice  the  expression  of  his  own  face.  And  I  recog- 
nized how  a  man  can  be  at  once  righteous  to  judge,  tender 
to  pity,  and  strong  to  save  ;  a  man,  the  princijile  of  whose 
life  is,  as  John's  was — that  it  should  be  made  "  conformable 
to  the  image  "  of  Him,  who  was  Himself  on  earth  the  image 
of  God. 

Ursula  came  out  and  called  her  husband.  They  talked 
for  some  time  together.  I  guessed,  from  what  I  heard, 
that  she  wished  Lady  Caroline  to  stay  the  night  here,  but 
that  he  with  better  judgment  was  urging  the  necessity  of 
her  returning  to  the  protection  of  her  husband's  home 
without  an  hour's  delay. 

"  It  is  her  only  chance  of  saving  her  reputation.  She 
must  do  it  at  least  temporaril}^,  till  some  better  measure 
can  be  taken.     Tell  her  so,  Ursula. " 

After  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Halifax  came  out  again. 

"I  have  persuaded  her  at  last.     She  says  she  will  do 


300  JOHN"    HALIFAX. 

whatever  you  think  best.  Only  before  she  goes,  she  wants 
to  look  at  the  children.     May  she  ?  " 

"  Poor  soul  ! — yes,"  John  murmured,  turning  away. 

Stepping  out  of  sight,  we  saw  the  jioor  lady  pass  through 
the  quiet,  empty  house  into  the  children's  bed-room.  AYe 
heard  her  smothered  sob,  at  times,  the  whole  way. 

Then  I  went  down  to  the  stream,  and  helped  John  to 
saddle  his  horse,  with  Mrs.  Halifax's  old  saddle — in  her 
girlish  days,  Ursula  used  to  be  very  fond  of  riding. 

"  She  can  ride  back  again  from  the  My  the,"  said  John. 
^'  She  wishes  to  go,  and  it  is  best  she  should  ;  so  that  no- 
thing need  be  said,  except  that  Lady  Caroline  spent  a  day 
at  Longfield,  and  that  my  wife  and  I  accompanied  her  safe 
home.^^ 

While  he  spoke,  the  two  ladies  came  down  the  field-path. 
I  fancied  I  heard,  even  now,  a  faint  echo  of  that  peculiarly 
sweet  and  careless  laugh,  indicating  how  light  were  all  im- 
pressions on  a  temperament  so  plastic  and  weak — so  easily 
re-moulded  by  the  very  next  influence  that  fate  might  throw 
across  her  perilous  way. 

John  Halifax  assisted  her  on  horseback,  took  the  bridle 
under  one  arm  and  gave  the  other  to  his  Avife.  Thus  they 
passed  uj)  the  path,  and  out  at  the  White  Gate. 

I  delayed  a  little  while,  listening  to  the  wind,  and  to  the 
prattle  of  the  stream,  that  went  singing  along  in  daylight 
or  in  darkness,  by  our  happy  home  at  Longfield.  And  I 
sighed  to  myself,  "  Poor  Lady  Caroline  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Midnight  thongli  it  wus,  I  sat  up  imtil  John  and  liia 
wife  came  homo.  They  said  scarcely  anything,  but  straight- 
way retired.  In  the  morning,  all  went  on  in  the  house  as 
usual,  and  no  one  ever  knew  of  this  night's  episode,  except 

us  three. 

In  the  morning,  Guy  looked  wistfully  around  him,  ask- 
ing for  the  "pretty  lady  ;"  and  being  told  that  she  was 
gone,  and  that  he  would  not  be  likely  to  see  her  again, 
seemed  disappointed  for  a  minute  ;  but  soon  he  went  down 
to  play  at  the  stream,  and  forgot  all. 

Once  or  twice  I  fancied  the  mother's  clear  voice  abjut 
the  house  was  rarer  than  its  wont ;  that  her  quick,  active, 
cheerful  presence — penetrating  every  nook,  and  visiting 
every  creature,  as  with  the  freshness  of  an  April  wind — 
was  this  day  softer  and  sadder  ;  but  she  did  not  say  any- 
thing to  me,  nor  I  to  her. 

John  had  ridden  off  early — to  the  flour-mill,  which  he 
still  kept  on,  together  with  the  house  at  Norton  Bury — he 
always  disliked  giving  up  any  old  associations.  At  dinner- 
time he  came  home,  saying  he  was  going  out  again  imme- 
diately. 

Ursula  looked  uneasy.  A  few  minutes  after  she  followed 
me  under  the  walnut-tree,  where  I  was  sitting  with  ^luriel, 
and  asked  me  if  I  would  go  with  John  to  Kingswell. 

''■  The  election  takes  place  to-day,  and  he  thinks  it  right 
to  be  there.  He  will  meet  Mr.  Brithwood  and  Lord  Lux- 
more  ;  and  though  there  is  not  the  slightest  need — my 
husband  can  do  all  that  he  has  to  do  alone — still  for  my 
own  satisfaction,  I  would  like  his  brother  to  be  near  him." 

They  invariably  called  me  their  brother  now  ;  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  name  had  been  mine  by  right  of  blood 

alwavs. 

301 


302  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Of  course,  I  went  to  Kingswell,  riding  John's  brown 
mare,  lie  himself  Aval  king  by  my  side.  It  was  not  often 
that  we  were  thus  alone  together,  and  I  enjoyed  it  much. 
All  the  old  days  seemed  to  come  back  again  as  we  passed 
along  the  quiet  roads  and  green  lanes,  just  as  when  we 
were  boys  together,  when  I  had  none  I  cared  for  but  David, 
and  David  cared  only  for  me.  The  natural  growth  of 
things  had  made  a  difference  in  this,  but  our  affection  had 
changed  its  outward  form  only,  not  its  essence.  I  often 
think  that  all  loves  and  friendships  need  a  certain  three 
da^^s'  burial  before  we  can  be  quite  sure  of  their  truth  and 
immortality.  Mine — it  happened  just  after  John's  mar- 
riage, and  I  may  confess  it  now — had  likewise  its  entomb- 
ment, bitter  as  brief.  Many  cruel  hours  sat  I  in  darkness, 
weeping  at  the  door  of  its  sepulchre,  thinking  that  I  should 
never  see  it  again  ;  but,  in  the  dawn  of  the  morning,  it 
rose,  and  I  met  it  in  the  desolate  garden,  different,  yet 
the  very  same.  And  after  that,  it  walked  with  me  con- 
tinually, secure  and  imperishable  evermore. 

I  rode,  and  John  sauntered  beside  me  along  the  footpath, 
now  and  then  plucking  a  leaf  or  branch  off  the  hedge,  and 
playing  with  it,  as  was  his  habit  when  a  lad.  Often,  I 
caught  the  old  smile — not  one  of  his  three  boys,  not  even 
handsome  Guy,  had  their  father's  smile. 

He  was  telling  me  about  Enderley  Mill,  and  all  his  plans 
there,  in  the  which  he  seemed  very  happy.  At  last  his  long 
life  of  duty  was  merging  into  the  life  he  loved.  He  looked 
as  proud  and  jjleased  as  a  boy,  in  talking  of  the  new  inven- 
tions he  meant  to  apply  in  cloth-weaving ;  and  how  he  and 
his  wife  had  agreed  together  to  live  for  some  years  to  come 
at  little  Longfield,  strictly  within  their  settled  income,  that 
all  the  remainder  of  his  capital  might  go  to  the  improve- 
ment of  Enderley  Mills  and  mill-people. 

"  I  shall  be  master  of  nearly  a  hundred  men  and  women. 
Think  what  good  we  may  do  !  She  has  half-a-dozen  plans 
on  foot  already — bless  her  dear  heart  !  " 

It  was  easv  to  guess  whom  he  referred  to — the  one  who 
went  hand-in-hand  with  him  in  everything. 

"  Was  the  dinner  in  the  barn^  next  Monday,  her  plan  too  ?  " 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  303 

"  Partly.  I  thought  M'e  would  begin  a  sort  of  yearly  fes- 
tival for  the  old  tan-yard  people,  and  those  about  the  flour- 
mill,  and  the  Kingswell  tenants — ah,  Phineas,  wasn't  1 
right  about  those  Kingswell  folk  ?  " 

These  were  about  a  dozen  poor  families,  whom,  when  our 
mortgage  fell  in,  he  had  lured  out  of  Sally  Watkins'  misera- 
ble alley  to  these  old  houses,  where  they  had  at  least  fresh 
country  air,  and  space  enough  to  live  wholesomely  and  de- 
cently, instead  of  herding  togetlier  like  pigs  in  a  sty. 

"  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  your  tenants,  Phineas.  I 
assure  you,  they  form  quite  a  contrast  to  their  neighbors, 
who  are  Lord  Luxmore's." 

"  And  his  voters  likewise.  I  suppose  ? — the  '  free  and  in- 
dependent burgesses'  Avho  are  to  send  Mr.  A'ermilye  to  par- 
liament ?  " 

"  If  they  can,"  said  John,  biting  his  lip  with  that  reso- 
lute half-combative  air  which  I  now  saw  in  him  at  times, 
roused  by  things  v\diich  continually  met  him  in  his  dealings 
with  the  world — things  repugnant  alike  to  his  feelings  and 
his  principles,  but  which  he  had  still  to  endure,  not  having 
risen  high  enough  to  oppose,  single-handed,  the  great 
mass  of  social  corruption  wliich  at  this  crisis  of  English 
history  kept  gathering  and  gathering,  until  out  of  the  very 
horror  and  loathsomeness  of  it.  an  outcry  for  purification 
arose. 

"  Do  you  know,  Phineas,  I  might  last  week  have  sold 
your  houses  for  double  price  ?  They  are  valuable,  this 
election  year,  since  your  five  tenants  are  the  only  voters  in 
Kingswell  who  are  not  likewise  tenants  of  Lord  Luxmore. 
Don't  you  see  how  the  matter  stands  ?  " 

It  was  not  difficult,  for  that  sort  of  game  was  played  all 
over  England,  connived  at,  or  at  least  winked  at,  by  those 
who  had  political  influence  to  sell  or  obtain,  until  the  Re- 
form Bill  opened  up  the  election  system  in  all  its  rottenness 
and  enormity. 

"  Of  course,  I  knew  you  would  not  sell  your  houses  ;  and 
I  shall  use  every  possible  influence  I  have  to  prevent  your 
tenants  selling  their  votes.  Whatever  may  be  the  conse- 
quence, the  sort  of  thing  that  this  Kingswell  election  bids 


304  JOH]Sr    HALIFAX. 

fair  to  be,  is  wliat  any  honest  Englishman  ought  to  set  hia 
face  against,  and  prevent  if  he  can.'' 

''  Can  you  ?  " 

*'I  do  not  feel  sure,  but  I  mean  to  try.  First,  for  simj)le 
right  and  conscience  ;  secondly,  because  if  Mr.  Yermilye  is 
not  saved  from  arrest  by  being  placed  in  Parl'ament,  he  will 
be  outlawed  and  driven  safe  out  of  the  counti  y.    You  see  ?  " 

Ay,  I  did.  (iidy  too  well.  Though  I  foresaw  that  what- 
ever John  was  about  to  do,  it  must  necessarily  be  some- 
thing that  Avould  run  directly  counter  to  Lord  Luxmore— 
and  he  had  only  just  signed  the  lease  of  Enderley  Mills. 
Still,  if  right  to  be  done — he  ought  to  do  it  at  all  risks,  at 
all  costs  ;  and  I  knew  his  wife  would  say  so. 

We  came  to  the  foot  of  Kingswell  Hill,  and  saw  the  little 
hamlet — with  its  grey  old  houses,  its  small,  ancient  church, 
guarded  by  enormous  ye"\v-trees,  and  clothed  with  ivy  that 
indicated  centuries  of  growth, 

A  carriage  overtook  us  ;  in  it  were  two  gentlemen,  one 
of  whom  bowed  in  a  friendly  manner  to  John.  He  re- 
turned it. 

"  This  is  well  ;  I  shall  have  one  honest  gentleman  to  deal 
with  to-day." 

"  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Sir  Ealph  Oldtower,  from  whom  I  bought  Longfield. 
An  excellent  man — I  like  him — even  his  fine  old  Roman 
face,  like  one  of  his  knightly  ancestors  on  the  tomb  of 
Kingswell  church.  There's  something  pleasant  about  his 
stiff  courtesy  and  his  staunch  Toryism  ;  for  he  fully  believes 
in  it,  and  acts  up  to  his  belief,  A  true  English  gentleman, 
and  I  respect  him." 

"  Yet,  John,  Norton  Bury  calls  you  a  democrat." 

'^  So  I  am,  for  I  belong  to  the  people.  But  I  neverthe- 
less uphold  a  true  aristocracy — the  l)est  men  of  the  country 
— do  you  remember  our  Greeks  of  old  ?  These  ought  to 
govern,  and  will  govern,  one  day,  whether  their  patent  of 
nobility  be  birth  and  titles,  or  only  honesty  and  brains." 

Thus  he  talked  on,  and  I  liked  to  hear  him,  for  talking 
was  rare  in  his  busy  life  of  constant  action,  I  liked  to  ob- 
serve how  during  these  ten  years  his  mind  had  brooded  ovei 


JOHJSr   HALIFAX.  305 

many  things  ;  how  it  had  grown,  strengthened,  and  settled 
itself,  enlarging  both  its  vision  and  its  aspirations  ;  as  a  man 
does,  who,  his  heart  at  rest  in  a  happy  home,  has  time  and 
will  to  look  out  from  thence  into  tlie  troublous  Avorld  out- 
side, ready  to  do  his  work  there  likewise.  That  John  was 
able  to  do  it — ay,  beyond  most  men — few  would  doubt 
who  looked  into  his  face  ;  strong  with  the  strength  of  an 
intellect  which  owed  all  its  development  to  himself  alone  ; 
calm  with  the  wisdom  which,  if  a  man  is  ever  to  be  wise, 
comes  to  him  after  he  has  crossed  the  line  of  thirty  years. 
In  that  face,  where  day  by  day  Time  M^as  writing  its  fit  les- 
sons^ — beautiful,  because  they  Avere  so  fit — I  ceased  to  miss 
the  boyish  grace,  and  rejoiced  in  the  manhood,  present,  in 
the  old  age  that  was  to  be. 

It  seemed  almost  too  short  a  journey,  when,  putting  liis 
hand  on  the  mare's  bridle — the  creature  loved  him,  and 
turned  to  lick  his  arm  the  minute  he  came  near — John 
stopped  me  to  see  the  view  from  across  Kingswell  church- 
yard. 

"  Look,  what  a  broad  valley,  rich  in  woods,  and  meadow- 
land,  and  corn.  How  quiet  and  blue  lie  the  Welsh  hills  far 
away.  It  does  one  good  to  look  at  them.  N"ay,  it  brings 
back  a  little  bit  of  me  Avhich  rarely  comes  uppermost  now, 
as  it  used  to  come  long  ago,  when  you  read  your  namesake, 
and  Shakspeare,  and  that  Anonymous  Friend  Avho  lias  since 
made  such  a  noise  in  the  world.  I  delight  in  him  still. 
Think  of  a  man  of  business  liking  Coleridge." 

''  I  don't  see  why  he  should  not." 

'•'Nor  I.  Well,  my  poetic  tastes  may  come  out  more  at 
Enderley.  Or  perhaps  when  I  am  an  old  man,  and  have 
fought  the  good  fight,  and — holloa,  there  !  Matthew  Hales, 
have  they  made  you  drunk  already  ?  " 

The  man — he  was  an  old  workman  of  ours — touched  his 
hat,  and  tried  to  Avalk  steadily  past  ''the  master,"  Avho 
looked  at  once  both  stern  and  sad. 

"1  thought  it  would  be  so  ! — I  doubt  if  there  is  a  voter 
in  all  Kingswell  who  has  not  got  a  bribe." 

"  It  is  the  same  everywhere,"  I  said.     "  What  can  one 
man  do  against  it  single-handed  ?  " 
20 


306  JOHlsT    HALIFAX. 

''  Single-handed  or  not,  eveiy  man  ought  to  do  what  he 
can.  And  no  man  knows  how  much  he  can  do  till  he 
tries." 

So  saying,  he  went  into  the  large  parlor  of  the  Luxmore 
Arms,  where  the  election  was  going  on, 

A  very  simple  thing,  that  election  !  Sir  Ralph  Old  tower, 
who  was  sheriff,  sat  at  a  table,  with  his  son,  the  grave- 
looking  young  man  who  had  been  with  him  in  the  carriage, 
near  them  were  Mr.  Brithwood  of  the  Mythe,  and  the  Earl 
of  Luxmore. 

The  room  was  pretty  well  filled  with  farmers'  laborers 
and  the  like.  We  entered,  making  little  noise  ;  but  John's 
head  was  taller  than  mowt  heads  present ;  the  sheriff  saw 
him  at  once,  and  bowed  courteously.  So  did  young  Mr. 
Herbert  Oldtower,  so  did  the  Earl  of  Luxmore.  Richard 
Brithwood  alone  took  no  notice,  but  turned  his  back  and 
looked  another  way. 

It  was  now  many  years  since  I  had  seen  the  'squire.  Lady 
Caroline's  husband.  He  had  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his 
youth,  and  grown  into  a  bloated,  coarse-featured,  middle- 
aged  man  ;  such  a  man  as  one  rarely  meets  with  noAV-a 
days  ;  for  even  I,  Phineas  Fletcher,  have  lived  to  see  so 
great  a  change  in  manners  and  morals,  that  intemperance, 
instead  of  being  the  usual  characteristic  of  a  "gentleman," 
has  become  a  rare  failing — a  universally-contemned  dis- 
grace. 

"  Less  noise  there  ! "  growled  Mr.  Brithwood.  "  Silence, 
you  fellows  at  the  door  !  Now,  Sir  Ralph,  let's  get  the 
business  over,  and  be  back  for  dinner." 

Sir  Ralph  turned  his  stately  grey  head  to  the  light,  put 
on  his  gold  spectacles,  and  began  to  read  the  writ  of  elec- 
tion. As  he  finished  the  small  audience  set  up  a  feeble 
cheer. 

The  sheriff  acknowledged  it,  then  leaned  over  the  table, 
talking  with  rather  frosty  civility  to  Lord  Luxmore.  Their 
acquaintance  seemed  solely  that  of  business.  People  whis- 
pered that  Sir  Ralph  never  forgot  that  the  Oldtowers  were 
Crusaders  when  the  Ravenels  were — nobody.  Also,  the 
baronet,  whose  ancestors  were  ail  honorable  men  and  stain- 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  30? 

less  women,  found  it  luird  to  overlook  a  certain  royal  bar- 
sinister,  which  had  originated  the  Luxmore  earldom,  to- 
gether with  a  few  other  blots  which  had  tarnished  that 
scutcheon  since.  80  folks  said  ;  but  proba1)ly  8ir  Ralph's 
high  principle  was  at  least  as  strong  as  his  pride,  and  that 
the  real  cause  of  his  dislike  was  founded  on  the  too  well- 
known  character  of  the  Earl  of  Luxmore. 

They  ceased  talking  ;  the  sheriff  rose,  and  briefly  stated 
that  Ricliard  Hrithwood,  Esquii-e,  of  the  Mythe,  would 
nominate  a  candidate. 

The  candidate  was  Gerard  Yermilye,  Esquire  ;  at  the 
mention  of  whose  name  one  Norton  Bury  man  broke  into 
a  horse  laugh,  which  was  quenched  by  his  immediate  ejec- 
tion from  the  meeting. 

Then,  Mr.  Thomas  Brown,  stewai-d  of  the  Earl  of  Lux- 
more, secontled  the  nomination. 

After  a  few  words  between  the  sheriff,  his  son,  and  Lord 
Luxmore,  the  result  of  which  seemed  rather  unsatisfactory 
than  otherwise.  Sir  Ralph  Oldtower  again  rose. 

"  Gentlemen  and  electors,  there  being  no  other  candidate 
proposed,  nothing  is  left  me  but  to  declare  Gerard  Ver- 
milye,  Esquire " 

John  Halifax  made  his  way  to  the  table.  "  Sir  Ralph, 
pardon  my  interruption,  but  may  I  speak  a  few  words  ?" 

Mr.  Brithwood  started  up  with  an  angry  oath. 

"My  good  sir,"  said  the  baronet,  with  a  look  of  repre- 
hension which  proved  him  of  the  minority  who  thought 
swearing  ungentlemanly. 

*'  By ,  Sir  Ralph,  you  shall  not  hear  that  low  fellow  ! " 

"  Excuse  me,  I  must,  if  he  has  a  right  to  be  heard.  Mr. 
Halifax,  are  you  a  freeman  of  Kiiigswell  ?  '* 

"  I  am." 

This  fact  surprised  none  more  than  myself. 

Brithwood  furiously  exclaimed  that  it  was  a  falsehood. 
"  The  fellow  does  not  belong  to  this  neighborhood  at  all. 
He  was  picked  up  in  Norton  Bury  streets — a  beggar,  a 
thief,  for  all  I  know." 

"  You  do  know  very  well,  Mr.  Brithwood.  Sir  Ralph,  1 
was  never  either  a  beggar  or  a  thief.      1  began  life  as  a 


308  JOHIf    HALIFAX. 

working  lad — a  farm-laborer — until  Mr.  Fletcher,  the  tan- 
ner, took  me  into  his  emjjloy." 

"  So  I  have  always  understood,"  said  8ir  Ealph,  cour- 
teously. "  And  next  to  the  man  who  is  fortunate  enough  to 
boast  a  noble  origin,  I  respect  the  man  who  is  not  ashamed 
of  an  ignoble  one." 

"  That  is  not  exactly  my  position  either,"  said  John, 
with  a  half  smile.  "•'  But  we  are  passing  from  the  question 
in  hand,  which  is  simply  my  claim  to  be  a  freeman  of  this 
borough." 

"  On  what  ground  ?  " 

"  You  will  find  in  the  charter,  a  clause  seldom  put  in 
force,  that  the  daughter  of  a  freeman  can  confer  the  free- 
dom on  her  husband.  My  wife's  late  father,  Mr.  Henry 
March,  was  a  burgess  of  Kingswell.  I  claimed  my  rights, 
and  registered  this  year.  Ask  your  clerk.  Sir  Ralph,  if  I 
have  not  spoken  coi'rectly." 

The  old  white-headed  clerk  allowed  the  fact. 

Lord  Luxmore  looked  considerably  surprised,  and  politely 
incredulous  still.  His  son-in-law  broke  out  into  loud  abuse 
of  this  "  knavery." 

"  I  will  pass  over  this  ngly  word,  j\Ir.  Brithwood,  merely 
stating  that — " 

"We  are  quite  satisfied."  interrupted  Lord  Luxmore, 
blandly.  "  My  dear  sir,  may  I  request  so  useful  a  vote  and 
so  powerful  an  interest  as  yours,  for  our  friend,  Mr.  Ver- 
milye  ?  " 

"  My  lord,  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  you  to  misappre- 
hend me  for  a  moment.  It  is  not  my  intention,  except  at 
the  last  extremity,  to  vote  at  all.  If  I  do,  it  will  certainly 
not  be  for  Mr.  Brithwood's  nominee.  Sir  Ralph,  I  doubt 
if,  under  some  circumstances,  which  by  your  permission  I 
am  about  to  state,  Mr.  Gerard  Vermilye  can  keep  his  seat, 
even  if  elected." 

A  murmur  arose  from  the  crowd  of  mechanics  and  labor- 
ers, who,  awed  by  such  propinquity  to  gentry,  and  even 
nobility,  had  hitherto  hung  sheepishly  back  :  but  now,  like 
all  English  crowds,  were  quite  ready  to  "  follow  the  leader," 
especially  one  they  knew. 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  309 

"  Hear  him  !  hear  the  master  ! "  was  distinguishable  on 
all  sides.  Mr.  Brithwood  looked  too  enraged  for  words  ; 
but  Lord  Luxmore,  taking  snuff  with  a  sarcastic  smile, 
said — 

"  Honor es  vudfuif  mores  I — I  thought,  Mr.  Halifax,  you 
eschewed  politics  ?  ' ' 

"Mere  politics  I  do,  but  not  honesty,  justice,  morality; 
and  a  few  facts  have  reached  my  knowledge,  though  pos- 
sibly not  Lord  Luxmore's,  which  make  me  feel  that  Mr. 
Vermilye's  election  would  be  an  insult  to  all  three  ;  there- 
fore, I  oppose  it." 

A  louder  murmur  rose. 

"  Silence,  you  scoundrels  ! "  shouted  Mr.  Brithwood, 
adding  liis  usual  formula  of  speech,  which  a  second  time 
extorted  the  old  l)aronct's  grave  relnike. 

"  It  seems,  Sir  IJalph,  that  democracy  is  rife  in  your 
neighborhood.  True,  my  acquaintance  has  not  lain  much 
among  the  commonalty,  but  still  I  was  not  aware  that  the 
people  choose  the  member  of  parliament." 

"They  do  not.  Lord  Jjuxmore,"  returned  the  sheriff, 
somewhat  hauglitily.  "  But  we  always  hear  the  people. 
Mr.  Halifax,  be  brief.  What  have  you  to  allege  against 
Mr.  BritliAvood's  nominee  ?" 

"First,  his  qualification.  He  has  not  three  hundred, 
nor  one  hundred  a-year.  He  is  deeply  in  debt,  at  Norton 
Bury  and  elsewhere.  Warrants  are  out  against  him  ;  and 
only  as  an  M.P.  he  can  be  safe  from  outlawry.  Add  to 
this,  an  offence  common  as  daylight,  yet  which  the  law 
dare  not  Avink  at  when  made  patent — that  he  has  bribed, 
with  great  or  small  sums,  everyone  of  the  fifteen  electors 
of  Kmgswell  ;  and  I  think  I  have  said  enough  to  convince 
any  honest  Englishman  that  ]\Ir.  Gerard  Vermilye  is  not  fit 
to  represent  them  in  Parliament." 

Here  a  loud  cheer  broke  from  the  crowd  at  the  door  and 
under  the  open  windows,  where,  thick  as  bees,  the  villagers 
had  now  collected.  They,  the  un-voting,  and  consequently 
unbribable  portion  of  the  community — began  to  hiss  in- 
dignantly at  the  fifteen  unlucky  voters.  For  though 
bribery  was,  as  John  had  truly  said,  "  as  common  as  day- 


310  JOHN    HALIFAX, 

light,"  still,  if  brought  openly  before  the  public,  the  said 
virtuous  public  generally  condemned  it,  if  they  themselves 
had  not  been  concerned  therein. 

The  sheriff  listened  uneasily  to  a  sound,  very  uncommon 
at  elections,  of  the  populace  expressing  an  opinion  contrary 
to  that  of  the  lord  of  the  soil. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Brithwood,  you  must  have  been  as  ignorant 
as  I  was  of  the  character  of  your  nominee,  or  you  would 
have  chosen  some  one  else.  Herbert " — he  turned  to  his 
son,  who,  until  the  late  dissolution,  had  sat  for  some  years 
as  member  for  ISTorton  Bury — "  Herbert,  are  you  acquainted 
with  any  of  these  facts  ?  " 

Mr.  Herbert  Oldtower  looked  uncomfortable. 

"  Answer,"  said  his  father.  "  No  hesitation  in  a  matter 
of  right  and  wrong.  Gentlemen,  and  my  worthy  friends, 
will  you  hear  Mr.  Oldtower,  whom  you  all  know  ?  Herbert, 
are  these  accusations  true  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  said  the  grave  young  man,  more 
gravely. 

"Mr.  Brithwood,  I  regret  extremely  that  this  discovery 
was  not  made  before.     What  do  you  purpose  doing  ?" 

"  By  the  Lord  that  made  me,  nothing  !  The  borough 
is  Lord  Luxmore's  ;  I  could  nominate  Satan  himself  if  I 
chose.     My  man  shall  stand." 

"  I  think,"  Lord  Luxmore  said,  with  meaning,  "  it 
would  be  better  for  all  parties  that  Mr.  Vermilye  should 
stand." 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  baronet ;  and  one  could  see  that  not 
only  rigid  justice,  but  a  certain  obstinacy,  marked  his 
character,  especially  when  anything  jarred  against  his  per- 
sonal dignity  or  prejudices  ;  "  you  forget  that,  however 
desirous  I  am  to  satisfy  the  family  to  whom  this  borough 
belongs,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  see  with  satisfaction — 
even  though  I  cannot  prevent — the  election  of  any  person 
so  unfit  to  serve  his  Majesty.  If,  indeed,  there  were  an- 
other candidate,  so  that  the  popular  feeling  might  decide 
this  very  difficult  matter " 

"Sir  Ralph,"  said  John  Halifax,  determinedly,  "this 
brings  me  to  the  purpose  for  which  I  spoke.     Being  a  land- 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  311 

holder,  and  likewise  a  freeman  of  this  borough,  I  claim  the 
right  of  nominating  a  second  candidate." 

Intense,  overwhelming  astonishment  struck  all  present. 
Such  a  right  had  been  so  long  unclaimed,  that  everybody 
had  forgotten  it  was  a  right  at  all.  Sir  lialph  and  his  clerk 
laid  their  venerable  heads  together  for  some  minutes,  before 
they  could  come  to  any  conclusion  on  the  subject.  At  last, 
the  sheriff  rose. 

"  I  am  bound  to  say,  that,  though  very  uncommon,  this 
proceeding  is  not  illegal." 

"  Not  illegal  ?  "  almost  screamed  Richard  Brithwood. 

"  Not  illegal.  1  therefore  wait  to  hear  Mr.  Halifax's 
nomination.     Sir,  your  candidate  is,  I  hope,  no  democrat  ?  " 

"  His  political  opinions  differ  from  mine,  but  he  is  the 
only  gentleman  whom  I  in  tliis  emergency  can  name  ;  and 
is  one  whom  myself,  and  I  believe  all  my  neighbors,  will  ])e 
heartily  glad  to  see  once  more  in  parliament.  I  beg  to 
nominate  Mr.  Herbert  Oldtower." 

A  decided  sensation  at  the  upper  half  of  the  room.  At 
the  lower  half  an  unanimous,  involuntary  cheer  ;  for  among 
our  county  families  there  were  few  so  warmly  respected  as 
the  Oldtowers. 

Sir  Ralph  rose,  much  perplexed.  *'  I  trust  that  no  one 
present  will  suppose  I  was  aware  of  Mr.  Halifax's  intention. 
Nor.  I  understand,  was  Mr.  Oldtower.  My  son  must  speak 
for  himself." 

Mr.  Oldtower,  with  his  accustomed  gravity,  accompanied 
by  a  not  unbecoming  modesty,  said,  that  in  this  conjunc- 
ture, and  being  personally  acfiuainted  with  both  Mr.  Brith- 
wood and  the  Earl  of  Luxmore,  he  felt  no  hesitation  in  ac- 
cepting the  honor  offered  to  him. 

"  That  being  the  case,"  said  his  father,  though  evidently 
annoyed,  "1  have  only  to  fulfil  my  duty  as  public  officer  to 
the  crown." 

Amidst  some  confusion,  a  show  of  hands  was  called  for ; 
and  then  a  cry  rose  of  ''Go  to  the  poll ! " 

"  Go  to  the  poll  ! "  shouted  Mr.  Brithwood.  "  This  is  a 
family  borough.  There  has  not  been  a  poll  here  these  fifty 
years.     Sir  Ralph,  your  son's  mad." 


313  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Sir,  insanity  is  not  in  the  family  of  the  Oldtowers. 
My  position  here  is  simply  as  sheriff  of  the  county.  If  a 
poll  be  called  for — " 

"  Excuse  me.  Sir  Ralph,  it  would  be  hardly  worth  while. 
May  I  offer  you — " 

It  was — only  his  snuff-box.  But  the  EarFs  polite  and 
meaning  smile  filled  up  the  remainder  of  the  sentence. 

Sir  Ealjih  Oldtower  drew  himself  up  haughtily,  and  the 
fire  of  youth  flashed  indignantly  from  his  grand  old  eyes. 

"  Lord  Luxmore  seems  not  to  understand  the  duties  and 
principles  of  us  country  gentlemen,"  he  said  coldly,  and 
turned  away,  addressing  the  general  met/'ing.  "  Gentlemen, 
the  poll  will  be  held  this  afternoon,  according  to  the  sugges- 
tion of  my  neighbor  here." 

"  Sir  Ralph  Oldtower  has  convenient  neighbors,"  re- 
marked Lord  Luxmore. 

"  Of  my  neighbor,  Mr.  Halifax,"  repeated  the  old  baronet 
louder,  and  more  emphatically.  "A  gentleman," — he 
paused,  as  if  doubtful  whether  in  that  title  he  were  award- 
ing a  right  or  bestowing  a  courtesy,  looked  at  John,  and 
decided — "  a  gentleman  for  whom,  ever  since  I  have  known 
him,  I  have  entertained  the  highest  respect." 

It  was  the  first  public  recognition  of  the  position  which 
for  some  time  had  been  tacitly  given  to  John  Halifax  in  his 
own  neighborhood.  Coming  thus,  from  this  upright  and 
honorable  old  man,  whose  least  merit  it  was  to  hold,  and 
worthily,  a  baronetage  centuries  old.  it  made  John's  cheek 
glow  with  an  honest  gratification  and  a  pardonable  pride. 

"  Tell  her,"  he  said  to  me,  when,  the  meeting  having  dis- 
persed, he  asked  me  to  ride  home  and  explain  the  reason  of 
his  detention  at  Kingswell — "  Tell  my  wife  all.  She  will 
be  pleased,  you  know." 

Ay,  she  was.  Her  face  glowed  and  brightened  as  only 
a  wife's  can — a  wife  whose  dearest  pride  is  in  her  husband's 
honor. 

Nevertheless,  she  hurried  me  back  again  as  quickly  as  I 
came. 

As  I  once  more  rode  up  Kingswell  hill,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  whole  parish  were  agog  to  see  the  novel  sight.     A  con- 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  313 

tested  election  !  truly,  such  u  thing'  had  not  been  known 
within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhubitant.  The  fifteen 
voters — I  believe  that  was  the  number — were  altogether 
bewildered  by  a  sense  of  their  own  importance.  Also,  by 
a  new  and  startling  fact — which  I  found  !Mr.  Halifax  trying 
to  impress  upon  a  few  of  them,  gathered  under  the  great 
yew-tree  in  the  church-yard — that  a  man's  vote  ought  to  be 
the  expression  of  his  own  conscientious  opinion  ;  and  that 
for  him  to  sell  it  was  scarcely  less  vile  than  to  traffic  in  the 
liberty  of  his  son  or  the  honor  of  his  daughter.  Among 
those  who  listened  most  earnestly,  was  a  man  whom  I  had 
before  seen  to-day— Jacob  Baines,  once  the  ringleader  of 
the  bread-riots,  who  had  long  worked  steadily  in  the  tan- 
yard,  and  then  at  the  flour-mill.  He  was  the  honestest  and 
faithfulest  of  all  John's  people — illustrating  unconsciously 
that  Divine  doctrine,  that,  often,  they  love  most  to  whom 
most  has  been  forgiven. 

The  poll  was  to  be  held  in  the  church — a  not  uncommon 
usage  in  country  boroughs,  but  which  from  its  rarity  struck 
great  awe  into  the  Kingswell  folk.  The  churchwarden  was 
placed  in  the  clerk's  desk,  to  receive  votes.  Not  far  off,  the 
sheriff  sat  in  his  family-pew,  bare-headed;  by  his  grave  and 
reverent  manner  imposing  due  decorum,  which  was  carefully 
observed  by  all  except  Lord  Luxmore  and  Mr.  Brithwood. 

These  two,  apparently  sure  of  their  cause,  had  recovered 
their  spirits,  and  talked  and  laughed  loudly  on  the  otlier 
side  of  the  church.  It  was  a  very  small  building,  narrow 
and  cruciform  ;  every  word  said  in  it  was  distinctly  audible 
throughout. 

"  My  lord,  gentlemen,  and  my  friends,"  said  Sir  Ralph, 
rising  gravely,  "  let  me  hope  that  every  one  will  respect 
the  sanctity  of  this  place." 

Lord  Luxmore,  who  had  been  going  about  with  his  daz- 
zling diamond  snuff-box  and  equally  dazzling  smile,  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  the  aisle,  bowed,  replied,  "  With  pleasure 
— certainly  1 "  and  walked  inside  the  communion,  as  if 
believing  that  his  presence  there  conveyed  the  highest  com- 
pliment he  could  pay  the  spot. 

The  poll  began  in  perfect  silence.     One  after  the  other. 


314  JOHlSr    HALIFAX. 

three  farmers  went  up  and  voted  for  Mr.  Vermilye.  There 
was  snuff  under  their  noses — probably  something  heavier 
than  snuff  in  their  pockets. 

Then  came  up  the  big,  grey-headed  fellow  I  have  before 
mentioned — Jacob  Baines.  He  pulled  his  fore-lock  to  Sir 
Ealph,  rather  shyly  ;  possibly  in  his  youth  he  had  made  the 
sheriff's  acquaintance  under  less  favorable  circumstances. 
But  he  plucked  up  courage. 

"  Your  honor,  might  a  man  say  a  word  to  ^ee  ^" 

'^  Certainly  !  but  be  quick,  my  good  fellow,''  replied  the 
baronet,  who  was  noted  for  his  kindly  manner  to  humble 
folk. 

"  Sir,  I  be  a  poor  man.  I  lives  in  one  o'  my  lord's  houses. 
I  hanna  paid  no  rent  for  a  year.  Mr.  Brown  zays  to  me, 
he  zays — '  Jacob,  vote  for  Vermilye,  and  I'll  forgive  'ee  the 
rent,  and  here  be  two  pound  ten  to  start  again  wi'.'  So, 
as  I  zays  to  jMatthew  Hales  (he  be  Mr.  Halifax's  tenant, 
your  honor,  and  my  lord's  steward  ha'  paid  'un  nigh  four 
pound  for  his  vote),  I  sure  us  be  poor  men,  and  his  lord- 
ship a  lord  and  all  that — it's  no  harm,  I  reckon." 

"  Holloa  !  cut  it  short,  you  rascal ;  you're  stopping  the 
poll.     Vote,  I  say." 

"Ay,  ay,  'squire;"  and  the  old  fellow,  who  liad  some 
humor  in  him,  pulled  his  hair  again  civilly  to  Mr.  Brith- 
wood.     "  Wait  till  I  ha'  got  shut  o'  these." 

And  he  counted  out  of  his  ragged  pockets  a  handful,  of 
guineas.  Poor  fellow  !  how  bright  the}'  looked  ;  those 
guineas,  that  were  food,  clothing,  life. 

"Three  was  paid  to  I,  two  to  Will  Horrocks,  and  the 
rest  to  Matthew  Hales.  But,  sir,  we  has  changed  our 
minds  ;  and  please,  would'ee  give  back  the  money  to  them 
as  owns  it  ?  " 

"  Still,  mv  honest  friend " 

"  Thank'ee,  Sir  Ealph,  that's  it :  we  be  honest ;  we 
couldn't  look  the  master  in  the  face  else.  Twelve  year  ago, 
come  Michaelmas,  he  kept  some  on  us  from  starving — may 
be  worse.  We  bean't  going  to  turn  rascals  on's  hands  now. 
Now  I'll  vote,  sir, — and  it  won't  be  for  Vermilye." 

A  smothered  murmur  of  applause  greeted  old  Jacob,  as 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  315 

he  marched  buck  down  the  aisk',  where  on  the  stone 
benches  of  the  porch  was  seated  a  rural  jury,  who  discussed 
not  over-favorably  the  merits  of  Lord  Luxmore^s  candidate. 

"He  owes  a  jDOwer  o'  money  in  Norton  Bury — he  do." 

"  AVhy  doesn't  he  show  his  face  at  the  'lection,  like  a 
decent  gen'leman  ?  " 

•^'Fear'd  o'  bailiffs!"  suggested  the  one  constable,  old 
and  rheumatic,  who  guarded  the  peace  of  KingswelL 
"  He's  the  biggest  swindler  in  all  England." 

"  Curse  him  !  "  muttered  an  old  woman.  "  She  was  a 
bonny  lass — my  Sally  !     Ciirse  him  I  " 

All  this  while,  Lord  Luxmore  sat  in  lazy  dignity  in  the 
communion-chair,  apparently  satisfied  that  as  things  always 
had  been  so  they  would  continue  to  be  ;  that  despite  the 
unheard-of  absurdity  of  a  contested  election,  his  pocket- 
borough  was  quite  secure.  It  must  have  been,  to  say  the 
least,  a  great  surprise  to  his  lordship,  when,  the  poll  being 
closed,  its  result  was  found  thus  :  Out  of  the  fifteen  votes, 
six  were  for  Mr.  Vermilye,  nine  for  his  opponent.  Mr. 
Herbert  Oldtower  was  therefore  duly  elected  as  member 
for  the  borough  of  KingswelL 

The  earl  received  the  announcement Vith  dignified, incred- 
ulous silence  ;  but  ^fr.  Brithwood  never  spared  language. 

"  It's  a  cheat — an  infamous  conspiracy!  I  will  unseat 
him — by  my  soul  I  will  ! '' 

"You  may  find  it  difticult,"  said  John  Halifax,  count- 
ing out  the  guineas  deposited  by  Jacob  Baines,  and 
laying  them  in  a  heap  before  Mr.  Brown,  the  steward. 
"  Small  as  the  number  was,  I  believe  any  committee  of  the 
House  of  Commons  will  decide  that  nine  honester  votes 
were  never  polled.  But  I  regret,  my  lord — I  regret  deeply, 
Mr.  Brithwood," — and  there  was  a  kind  of  pity  in  his  eye 
— "that  in  this  matter  I  have  been  forced  as  it  were,  to 
become  your  opponent.  Some  day,  perhaps,  you  may  both 
do  me  the  justice  that  I  now  can  only  look  for  from  my  own 
conscience." 

"Very  possibly,"  replied  the  earl,  with  a  satirical  bow. 
"  I  believe,  gentlemen,  our  business  is  ended  for  to-day, 
and  it  is  a  long  drive  to  Norton  Bury.     Sir  Ralph,  might 


316  JOHN"   HALIFAX. 

we  hope  for  the  honor  of  your  company  ?  No  ?  Good 
day,  my  friends.     Mr.  Halifax,  your  servant." 

"  One  word,  my  lord.  Those  workmen  of  mine,  who  are 
your  tenants — 1  am  aware  what  usually  results  when  ten- 
ants in  arrear  vote  against  their  landlords — if,  without 
taking  any  harsher  measures,  your  agent  will  be  so  kind 
as  to  apply  to  me  for  the  rent — " 

"  Sir,  my  agent  will  use  his  own  discretion." 

''  Then  1  rely  on  3'our  lordship's  kindliness — your  sense 
of  honor." 

"  Honoris  only  spoken  of  between  equals,"  said  the  earl, 
haughtily.  "  But  on  one  thing  Mr.  Halifax  may  always 
rely — my  excellent  memory." 

With  a  smile  and  bow  as  perfect  as  if  he  were  victoriously 
(quitting  the  field.  Lord  Luxmore  departed.  Soon  not  one 
remained  of  all  those  who  had  filled  the  church  and  church- 
yard, making  there  a  tumult  that  is  chronicled  to  this  very 
day  by  some  ancient  villagers,  who  still  'Ihink  themselves 
greatly  ill-used  because  the  Keform  act  has  blotted  out  of 
the  list  of  English  boroughs,  the  "loyal  and  independent" 
borough  of  Kingswell. 

Sir  Ealph  Oldtower  stood  a  good  while  talking  with 
John  ;  and  finally,  having  sent  hiscarria;je  on,  vv^alkedwith 
him  down  Kingswell  Hill  towards  the  ma  iior-house.  I,  rid- 
ing alongside,  caught  fragments  of  their  conversation. 

"  What  you  say  is  all  true,  jMr.  Halifax  ;  and  you  say  it 
well.  But  what  can  we  do  ?  Our  English  constitution  is 
perfect — that  is,  as  perfect  as  anything  human  can  be.  Yet 
corruptions  will  arise  ;  we  regret,  we  even  blame — but  we 
cannot  remove  them.     It  is  impossible." 

"  Do  you  think.  Sir  Ralph,  that  the  Maker  of  this  world 
— which,  so  far  as  we  can  see.  He  means  like  all  other  of 
His  creations  gradually  to  advance  toward  perfection — do 
you  think  He  would  justify  us  in  pronouncing  any  good 
work  therein,  '  impossible  ?  "  " 

"  You  talk  like  a  young  man,"  said  the  baronet,  half 
sadly.  "  Coming  years  will  show  you  the  world,  and  the 
ways  of  it,  in  a  clearer  light." 

''  I  earjiestly  hope  so." 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  317 

Sir  Ealph  glanced  sideways  at  him — perhaps  with  a  sort 
of  envy  of  the  very  youth  which  he  thus  charitably  excused 
as  a  thing  to  be  allowed  for  till  ri2)er  wisdom  came.  Some- 
thing might  have  smote  the  old  man  with  a  conviction, 
that  in  tliis  youtli  was  strength  and  life,  the  spirit  of  the 
new  generation  then  j.  rising,  before  Avhich  the  old  worn- 
out  generation  would  crumble  into  its  natural  dust.  Dust 
of  the  dead  ages,  honorable  dust,  to  be  reverently  inurned, 
and  never  i:)arricididly  profaned  by  us  tlie  living  age,  who 
in  our  turn  must  follow  the  same  downward  jiath.  Dust, 
venerable  and  beloved — but  still  only  dust. 

The  conversation  ended,  we  took  our  diverse  ways  ;  8ir 
Ralph  giving  Mr.  Halifax  a  hearty  invitation  to  the  manor- 
house,  and  seeing  him  hesitate,  adding,  that  '•  Lady  Old- 
tower  would  shortly  have  the  honor  of  calling  upon  ]\Irs. 
Halifax." 

John  bowed.  "  But  I  ought  to  tell  you.  Sir  Ealph.  that 
my  wife  aiul  I  are  very  simple  people — that  we  make  no 
mere  acquaintances,  and  only  desire  friends." 

"  It  is  fortunate  tliat  Lady  Oldtowcr  and  myself  share 
the  same  peculiarity."  And  shaking  hands  Avith  a  stately 
cordiality,  the  ohl  man  took  his  leave. 

"  John,  you  have  made  a  step  in  the  world  to-day." 

"Have  1  ?"  he  said,  absently,  walking  in  deep  thought, 
and  pulling  the  hedge-leaves  as  he  went  along. 

"  What  will  your  wife  say  ?  " 

"  My  wife  ?  bless  her  !"and  he  seemed  to  be  only  speak- 
ing the  conclusion  of  his  thinking.  "•  It  will  make  no  dif- 
ference to  her — though  it  might  to  me.  She  married  me 
in  my  low  estate — but  some  day,  God  willing,  no  lady  in 
the  land  shall  be  higher  than  my  Ursula." 

Thus,  as  in  all  things,  each  thought  most  of  each  other, 
and  both  of  Him — whose  will  was  to  them  beyond  all  hu- 
man love,  ay,  even  such  love  as  theirs. 

Slowly,  slowly,  1  watched  the  grey  turrets  of  tlie  manor- 
house  fade  away  in  the  dusk  ;  the  hills  grew  indistinct,  and 
suddenly  we  saw  the  little  twinkling  light  that  we  knew 
was  the  lamp  in  Longfield  parlor,  shine  out  like  a  glow- 
worm across  the  misty  fields. 


318  JOHK   HALIFAX. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  children  are  gone  to  bed.  Phineas  ?^' 

And  the  fatherly  eyes  turned  fondly  to  that  pretty  Avink- 
ing  light ;  the  fatherly  heart  began  to  hover  over  the  dear 
little  nest  at  home. 

''  Surely  there's  some  one  at  the  White  Gate.  Ursula  !  " 

''John  !     Ah — it  is  you."' 

The  mother  did  not  express  her  feelings  after  the  fashion 
of  most  women  :  but  I  knev;  by  her  waiting  there,  and  by 
the  nervous  tremble  of  her  haud^  how  great  her  anxiety 
had  been. 

"  Is  all  safe,  husband  ?  " 

'' I  think  so.  Mr.  Oldtower  is  elected — lie  must  fly  the 
country. "" 

*'  Then  she  is  saved  ?  '' 

"  Let  us  hope  she  is.  Come,  my  darling  I  "  and  lie  wrap- 
ped his  arm  round  her,  for  she  was  shivering.  "  We  have 
done  all  we  could,  and  must  wait  the  rest.  Come  home. 
0  ! "  with  a  lifted  look  and  a  closer  strain,  ' '  thank  God  f oi 
home  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

We  always  rose  early  at  Longfield.  It  was  lovely  to  see 
the  morning  sun  climbing  over  One-tree  Hill,  catoliing 
the  larch-wood,  and  creeping  down  the  broad  slope  of  our 
fields  ;  thence  up  towards  Redwood  and  Leckington — un- 
til, while  the  dews  yet  lay  thick  on  our  shadowed  valley, 
Leckington  Hill  was  all  in  a  glow  of  liglit.  Delicious,  too, 
to  hear  the  little  ones  running  in  and  out,  bright  and  merry 
as  children  ought  to  be  in  the  first  Avholesome  hours  of  the 
day — to  see  them  feeding  their  chickens  and  jietting  their 
doves — calling  every  minute  on  father  or  mother  to  investi- 
gate and  enjoy  some  wonder  in  farm-yard  or  garden.  And 
either  was  ever  ready  to  listen  to  the  smallest  of  these 
little  mysteries,  knoAving  that  nothing  in  childhood  is  too 
trivial  for  the  notice,  too  foolish  for  the  sympathy,  of  those 
on  whom  the  Father  of  all  men  has  bestowed  the  holy  dig- 
nity of  parenthood. 

I  could  see  them  now,  standing  among  the  flower-beds, 
out  in  the  sunny  morning,  the  father's  tall  head  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  group — for  he  Avas  ahvays  the  important  person 
during  the  brief  hour  or  two  tliat  he  Avas  able-  to  be  at 
home.  The  mother  close  beside  him,  and  both  knotted 
round  Avith  an  interlaced  mass  of  little  arms  and  little  eager 
faces,  each  wanting  to  hear  everything  and  to  look  at 
everything — everybody  to  be  first,  and  nobody  last.  Xone 
rested  quiet  or  mute  for  a  second,  except  the  one  Avho  kept 
close  as  his  shadoAV  to  her  father's  side,  and  unAvittingly  Avas 
treated  by  him  less  like  the  other  children,  than  like  some 
stray  spirit  of  another  Avorld,  caught  and  held  jealously, 
but  Avithout  much  outAvard  notice,  lest  haply  it  might  take 
alarm,  and  vanish  back  again  unaAvares.  Whenever  he 
came  home  and  did  not  see  her  Avaiting  at  the  door,  his 
first  question  was  ahvays — "  AVhere's  Muriel  ?" 

319 


320  JOHjq^    HALIFAX. 

Muriel's  still  face  looked  very  bright  this  morning — the 
Monday  morning  after  the  election — because  her  father  was 
going  to  be  at  home  the  whole  day.  It  was  the  annual 
holiday  he  had  planned  for  his  work-people.  This  only 
"  dinner-]3arty "  we  had  ever  given — was  in  its  character 
not  unlike  that  memorable  feast,  to  which  were  gathered  the 
poor,  the  lame,  the  halt,  and  the  blind — all  who  needed, 
and  all  who  could  not  return  the  kindness.  There  were 
great  cooking  preparations — everything  that  could  make 
merry  the  heart  of  man — tea,  to  comfort  the  heart  of  wo- 
man, hard-working  woman — and  lots  of  bright  pennies  and 
silver  groats  to  rejoice  the  very  soul  of  youth. 

Mrs.  Halifax,  Jem  Watkins,  and  his  Jenny,  were  as  busy 
as  bees  all  morning.  John  did  his  best  to  help,  but  finally 
the  mother  pleaded  how  hard  it  was  that  the  children 
should  miss  their  holiday- walk  with  him,  so  we  Avere  all  dis- 
missed from  the  scene  of  action,  to  spend  a  long,  quiet^ 
two-hours,  lying  under  the  great  oak  on  One-tree  Hill. 
The  little  ones  played  about  till  they  were  tired  ;  then  John 
took  out  the  newspajier  and  read  about  Ciudad  Eodrigo, 
and  Lord  Wellington's  entry  into  Madrid — the  battered 
eagles  and  the  torn  and  bloody  flags  of  Badajoz,  which 
were  on  their  way  home  to  the  Prince  Eegent. 

"  I  wish  the  fighting  were  over,  and  peace  were  come," 
said  Muriel. 

But  the  boys  wished  quite  otherwise ;  they  already 
gloried  in'  the  accounts  of  battles,  j)layed  domestic  games 
of  French  and  English,  acted  garden  sieges  and  blockades. 

"  How  strange  and  awful  it  seems,  to  sit  on  this  green 
grass,  looking  down  our  quiet  valley,  and  then  think  of 
the  fighting  far  away  in  Spain — perhaps  this  very  minute, 
under  this  very  sky.  Boys,  I'll  never  let  either  of  you  be 
a  soldier." 

"  Poor  little  fellows  !  "  said  I,  "  they  can  remember 
nothing  but  Avar  time." 

"  What  Avould  peace  be  like  ?  "  asked  Muriel. 

"  A  glorious  time,  my  child — rejoicings  everywhere, 
fathers  and  brothers  coming  home,  work  thriving,  poo* 
men's  food  made  cheap,  and  all  things  prospering." 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  321 

"  I  should  like  to  live  to  see  it.  Shall  T  he  a  Avomaii, 
then,  father  ?" 

He  started.  Somehow,  she  seemed  so  unlike  an  ordinary 
child,  that  while  all  the  boys'  future  was  merrily  ^^lanned 
out — the  mother  often  said,  laughing,  she  knew  exactly 
what  sort  of  a  young  man  Guy  would  be — none  of  us  ever 
seemed  to  think  of  Muriel  as  a  woman. 

"Is  Muriel  anxious  to  be  grown  up  ?  Is  she  not  satis- 
fied with  being  my  little  daughter  always  ?"' 

"  Always." 

Her  father  drew  lier  to  him,  and  kissed  her  soft,  shut, 
blind  eyes.  Then,  sighing,  he  rose,  and  i)roposed  that  we 
should  all  go  home. 

This  first  feast  at  Longfield  was  a  most  merry  day.  The 
men  and  their  families  came  about  noon.  Soon  after,  they 
all  sat  down  to  dinner ;  Jem  Watkins'  pUin  of  the  barn 
being  universally  scouted  in  favor  of  an  oj^en-air  feast,  in 
the  shelter  of  a  hay-rick,  under  the  mild  blue  September  sky. 
Jem  jiresided  with  a  ponderous  dignity  wliicli  throughout 
the  day  furnished  great  private  amusement  to  Ursula,  John, 
and  me. 

In  the  afternoon,  all  rambled  about  as  they  liked — many 
under  the  cicerone-ship  of  jNIaster  Edwin  and  Master  Guy 
who  were  very  popular  and  grand  indeed.  Then  the  mother, 
with  Walter  clinging  shy-eyed  to  her  gown,  went  among 
the  other  poorer  mothers  there  ;  talked  to  one,  comforted 
another,  counselled  a  third,  and  invariably  listened  to  all. 
There  was  little  of  patronizing  benevolence  about  her  ;  she 
spoke  freely,  sometimes  even  with  some  sharpness,  when 
reproving  comment  was  needed  ;  but  her  earnest  kindness, 
her  active  goodness,  darting  at  once  to  the  truth  and  right 
of  things,  touched  the  women's  hearts.  "While  a  few  were 
a  little  wholesomely  afraid  of  her — all  recognized  the  in- 
fluence of  "' the  mistress,"  penetrating  deep  and  sure,  ex- 
tending far  and  wide. 

She  laughed  at  me  when  I  told  her  so — said  it  was  all 
nonsense — that  she  only  followed  John's  simple  recipe,  for 
making  his  Avork-])eo2ile  feel/that  he  was  a  friend  as  well  as 
%  master. 

21 


322  JOHlsr    HALIFAX. 

"What  is  that  ?" 

"  To  pay  attention  and  consideration  to  all  they  say  ;  and 
always  to  take  care  and  remember  to  call  them  by  their 
right  Christian  names.'' 

I  could  not  help  smiling — it  was  an  answer  so  like  Mrs. 
Halifax,  who  never  indulged  in  any  verbal  sentimentalism. 
Her  part  in  the  world  was  deeds. 

It  was  already  evening,  when,  having  each  contributed 
our  quota,  great  or  small,  to  the  entertainment,  we  all  came 
and  sat  on  the  long  bench  under  the  walnut-tree.  The  sun 
went  down  red  behind  us,  throwing  a  last  glint  on  the 
upland  field,  where,  from  top  to  bottom,  the  young  men 
and  women  were  running  in  a  long  "  thread-the-needle. '' 
Their  voices  and  laughter  came  faintly  down  to  us. 

"  I  think  they  have  had  a  happy  day,  John.  They  will 
work  all  the  better  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

"  So  am  I,''  said  Guy,  who  had  been  acting  the  young 
master  all  day,  condescendingly  stating  his  will  and  giving 
his  opinion  on  every  subject,  greatly  petted  and  looked  up 
to  by  all,  to  the  no  small  amusement  of  us  elders. 

"■  Why,  my  son  ?  "  asked  the  father,  smiling. 

But  here  Master  Guy  was  posed,  and  everybody  laughed 
at  him.  He  colored  up  with  childish  anger,  and  crept 
nearer  his  mother.  She  made  a  place  for  him  at  her  side, 
looking  appealingly  at  John. 

"  Guy  has  got  out  of  his  depth — we  must  help  him  into 
safe  waters  again,"  said  the  father.  "Look  here,  my  son,, 
this  is  the  reason — and  it  is  well  not  to  be  '  quite  sure  '  of  a 
thing  unless  one  knows  the  reason.  Our  people  will  work 
the  better,  because  they  will  work  from  love.  Not  merely 
doing  their  duty,  and  obeying  their  master  in  a  blind  way, 
but  feeling  an  interest  in  him  and  all  that  belongs  to  him  ; 
knowing  that  he  feels  the  same  in  them.  Knowing,  too, 
that  although,  being  their  superior  in  many  things,  he  is 
their  master  and  they  his  servants,  he  never  forgets  that 
saying,  which  I  read  out  of  the  Bible,  children,  this  morn- 
ing :  '  One  is  your  master — ev^en  Christ,  and  all  ye  are 
brethren.'     Do  you  understand  ?  " 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  323 

I  think  they  did,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  talk  ^\■ith 
them  thus — even  beyond  their  years.  Not  in  the  way  of 
preachifying — for  these  little  ones  had  in  their  childish 
days  scarcely  any  so-called  '  religious  instruction/  save  the 
daily  chapter  out  of  the  Xew  Testament,  and  the  father 
and  mother's  daily  life,  which  was  a  simple  and  literal  car- 
rying out  of  the  same.  To  that  one  test  was  brought,  all 
that  was  thought,  or  said,  or  done,  in  our  household,  where 
it  often  seemed  as  if  the  Master  were  as  visibly  obeyed 
and  followed  as  in  the  household  Avhicli  He  loved  at 
Bethany. 

As  to  what  doctrinal  creed  we  held,  or  what  sect  we  be- 
longed to,  I  can  give  but  the  plain  answer  which  John 
gave  to  all  such  inquiries — that  we  were  Christians. 

After  these  words  from  the  Holy  Book  (which  the  chil- 
dren always  listened  to  with  great  reverence,  as  to  the  Book 
which  their  parents  most  loved  and  honored,  the  reading 
and  learning  of  which  was  granted  as  a  high  reward  and 
favor,  and  never  carelessly  allowed,  or — horrible  to  think  ! 
- — inflicted  as  a  punishment),  we  ceased  smiling  at  Guy, 
who  in  his  turn  ceased  to  frown.  The  little  storm  blew 
over,  as  our  domestic  storms  usually  did,  leaving  a  clear, 
free  heaven.  Loving  one  another,  of  course  we  quarrelled 
sometimes  ;  but  we  always  made  it  up  again,  because — we 
loved  one  another. 

"  Father,  I  hear  the  click  of  the  gate.  There's  some- 
body coming,"  said  Muriel. 

The  father  paused  in  a  great  romp  with  his  sons — paused, 
as  he  ever  did  when  his  little  daughter's  soft  voice  was 
heard.     "'Tis  only  a  poor  boy — who  can  he  be  ?" 

"  One  of  the  folk  that  come  for  milk  most  likely — but 
we  have  none  to  give  away  to-day.  AVhat  do  }■  ou  want,  my 
lad?'' 

The  lad,  who  looked  miserable  and  scared,  opened  his 
mouth  with  a  stupid  "Eh  ?  " 

Ursula  repeated  the  question. 

*'  I  wants  Jacob  Baines." 

"  You'll  find  him  with  the  rest,  in  front  of  that  hay- 
rick, over  his  pipe  and  ale." 


324  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

The  lad  was  off  like  a  shot. 

"  He  is  from  Kingswell,  I  think.  Can  anything  be  the 
matter,  John  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  and  see.  No,  boys,  no  more  games — I  will  be 
back  presently." 

He  went,  apparently  rather  anxious — as  was  easy  to  find 
out  by  only  a  glance  at  the  face  of  Ursula.  Soon  she  rose 
and  Avent  after  him.     I  followed  her. 

We  saw,  close  by  the  hay-rick,  a  group  of  men,  angrily 
talking.  The  gossiping  mothers  were  just  joining  them. 
Far  off,  in  the  field,  the  younger  folk  were  still  dancing 
merrily  down  their  long  line  of  "  Thread-the-needle." 

As  we  approached,  we  heard  sobbing  from  one  or  two 
women,  and  loud  curses  from  the  men. 

"What's  amiss  ?"  said  Mr.  Halifax,  as  he  came  in  the 
midst — and  both  curses  and  sobbings  were  silenced.  All 
began  a  confused  tale  of  wrongs.  "  Stop,  Jacob — I  can't 
make  it  out." 

"  This  lad  ha'  seen  it  all.  And  he  bean't  a  liar  in  big 
things — speak  up,  Billy." 

Somehow  or  other,  we  extracted  the  news  brought  by 
ragged  Billy,  who  on  this  day  had  been  left  in  charge  of 
the  five  dwellings  rented  of  Lord  Luxmore.  During  the 
owners'  absence  there  had  been  a  distraint  for  rent  ;  every 
bit  of  the  furniture  was  carried  ofi:' ;  two  or  three  aged  and 
sick  folk  were  left  lying  on  the  bare  floor — and  the  poor 
families  here  would  have  to  go  home  to  nothing  but  their 
four  walls. 

Again,  at  repetition  of  the  story,  the  women  wept  and 
the  men  swore. 

"  Be  quiet,''  said  Mr.  Halifax  again.  But  I  saw  that  his 
honest  English  blood  was  boiling  within  him.  "  Jem  " — 
and  Jem  Watkins  started,  so  unusually  sharp  and  command- 
ing was  his  master's  tone — ''•  Saddle  the  mare — quick.  I 
shall  ride  to  Kingswell,  and  thence  to  the  sherifi^s." 

"God  bless  'ee,  sir!"  sobbed  Jacob  Baines'  widowed 
daughter-in-law,  who  had  left,  as  I  overheard  her  telling 
Mrs.  Halifax,  a  sick  child  to-day  at  home. 

Jacob  Baines  took  up  a  heavy  knobbed  stick  which  hap- 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  325 

peued  to  be   leaning  against  the  huy-rick,  and  eyed  it  with 
savage  meaning. 

"  Who  be  they  as  has  done  this,  master  ?" 

'^Put  that  bhidgeon  down,  Jacob." 

The  man  hesitated — met  his  master's  determined  eye — 
and  obeyed  him,  meek  as  a  lamb. 

"  Bnt  what  is  us  to  do,  sir  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  Stay  liere  till  I  return — you  shall  come  to 
no  harm.     Yon  will  trust  me,  my  men  ?" 

They  gathered  round  him — those  big,  fierce-looking  fel- 
lows, in  whom  was  brute  force  enough  to  attack  or  resist 
anything — yet  he  made  them  listen  to  reason.  He  ex- 
l)lained  as  much  as  he  could  of  the  injustice  which  had  ap- 
parently been  done  them — injustice  which  had  overstepped 
the  law,  and  could  only  be  met  by  keeping  absolutely  with- 
in the  law. 

'^  It  is  partly  my  fault,  that  I  did  not  pay  the  rent  to-day 
— I  will  do  so  at  once.  I  will  get  your  goods  back  to-night, 
if  I  can.  If  not,  you  hale  fellows  can  rough  it,  and  we'll 
take  the  women  and  children  in  till  morning — can  we  not, 
love?" 

"  Ay,  readily  ! "  said  the  mother.  -'  Don't  cry,  my  good 
women.  Mary  Baines,  give  me  your  baby.  Cheer  up.  the 
master  will  set  all  right !  " 

John  smiled  at  her  in  fond  thanks — the  wife  who  hin- 
dered him  by  no  selfishness  or  weakness,  but  v\^as  his  right 
hand  and  support  in  ever3^thing.  As  he  mounted,  she  gave 
him  his  whip,  whispering — 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,  mind.  Come  back  as  soon  as 
you  can." 

And  lingeringly  she  watched  him  gallop  down  the  field. 

It  was  a  strange  three  hours  we  passed  in  his  absence. 
The  misty  night  came  down,  and  round  about  the  house 
crept  wailing  the  loud  September  wind.  "We  brought  the 
women  into  the  kitchen — the  men  lit  a  fire  in  the  farm-yard, 
and  sat  sullenly  round  it.  It  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to 
persuade  Guy  and  Edwin  to  go  to  bed,  instead  of  watching 
that  "beautiful  blaze."  There,  more  than  once,  I  saw  the 
mother    standing,  with  a  shawl  over  her  head,   and    hei 


326  JOHiq-   HALIFAX. 

white  gown  blowing,  trying  to  reason  into  patience  those 
poor  fellows,  savage  with  their  wrongs. 

•^'^  How  far  have  they  been  wronged,  Phineas  ?  What  is 
the  strict  law  of  the  case  ?  Will  any  harm  come  to  John 
for  interfering  ?  " 

I  told  her,  no,  so  far  as  I  knew.  That  the  cruelty  and 
illegality  lay  in  the  haste  of  tlie  distraint,  and  in  tlie  goods 
having  been  carried  off  at  once,  giving  no  opportunity  of 
redeeming  them.  It  was  easy  to  grind  the  faces  of  the 
poor,  who  had  no  helper. 

"Never  mind;  my  husband  will  see  them  righted — at 
all  risks.  ^' 

"  But  Lord  Luxmore  is  his  landlord." 

She  looked  troubled.  "  I  see  what  you  mean.  It  is  easy 
to  make  an  enem3^  No  matter — I  fear  not.  I  fear  noth- 
ing while  John  does  what  he  feels  to  be  right — as  I  know 
he  will  ;  the  issue  is  in  higher  hands  than  ours  or  Lord 
Luxmore's. — But  where's  Muriel  ?  " 

For  as  we  sat  talking,  the  little  girl — whom  nothing 
could  persuade  to  go  to  bed  till  her  father  came  home — 
had  slipjjed  from  my  hand,  and  gone  out  into  the  bluster- 
ing niglit.  We  found  her  standing  all  by  herself  under  the 
walnut-tree. 

"  I  wanted  to  listen  for  father.     When  will  he  come  ?" 

"  Soon,  I  hope,"  answered  the  mother,  with  a  sigh. 
"^  You  must  not  stay  out  in  the  cold  and  the  dark,  my 
child." 

"  I  am  not  cold,  and  I  know  no  dark,"  said  Muriel, 
softly. 

And  thus  so  it  was  with  her  always.  In  her  spirit,  as  in 
her  outward  life,  so  innocent  and  harmless,  she  knew  no 
dark.  No  cold  looks — no  sorrowful  sights — no  winter — no 
age.  The  hand  laid  upon  her  dear  eyes,  pressed  eternal 
peace  down  on  her  soul.  I  belive  she  was,  if  ever  human 
being  was,  purely  and  entirely  happy.  It  was  always  sweet 
for  us  to  know  this — it  is  very  sweet  still,  Muriel,  our 
beloved ! 

We  brought  her  within  the  house,  but  she  persisted  in 
sitting  in  her  usual  place,  on  the  door-sill,  ' '  waiting  "  for 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  327 

her  fatlier.  It  was  she  who  lirst  heard  the  white  gate 
swing,  and  told  us  he  was  coming. 

Ursuhi  ran  down  to  the   stream  to  meet  him. 

When  they  came  up  the  ])ath,  it  was  not  alone — Jolm 
was  helping  a  lame  old  woman,  and  his  wife  carried  in  her 
arms  a  sick  child,  on  whom,  when  they  entered  the  kitchen, 
Mary  Baines  threw  herself  in  a  passion  of  crying. 

"  What  have  they  been  doing  to  'ee.  Tommy  ? — 'ee  warn't 
like  this  when  I  left  'ee.  0  they've  been  killing  my  lad, 
they  have  ! " 

"  Hush  ! "  said  Mrs.  Halifax  ;  "  we'll  get  him  well  again, 
please  God.     Listen  to  what  the  master's  saying." 

He  was  telling  to  the  men  who  gathered  round  the 
kitchen-door,  the  results  of  his  journey. 

It  was — as  I  had  expected  from  his  countenance  the  first 
minute  he  apjDcared — fruitless.  He  had  found  all  things 
at  Kingswell  as  stated.  Then  he  rode  to  the  sheriff's  ;  but 
Sir  Ralph  was  absent,  sent  for  to  Lux  more  Hall  on  very 
painful  business. 

"  My  friends,"  said  the  master,  stopping  ubrujilly  in  his 
narrative,  "  for  a  few  hours  you  must  make  up  your  minds 
to  sit  still  and  bear  it.  Every  man  has  to  learn  that  lesson 
at  times.  Your  landlord  has — I  would  j-uther  be  the  poorest 
among  you,  than  Lord  Luxmore  this  night.  Be  patient  ; 
well  lodge  you  all,  somehow.  To-morrow  I  will  pay  your 
rent — get  your  goods  back — and  you  shall  begin  the  world 
again,  as  my  tenants,  not  Lord  Luxmore's." 

"  Hurrah  !  "  shouted  the  men,  easily  satisfied  ;  as  work- 
ing people  are,  who  have  been  used  all  their  days  to  live 
from  hand  to  mouth,  and  to  whom  the  present  is  all  in  all. 
I'hey  followed  the  master,  who  settled  them  in  the  barn  ; 
and  then  came  back  to  consult  with  his  wife  as  to  where 
the  women  could  be  stowed  away.  So,  in  a  short  time,  the 
live  homeless  families  were  cheerily  disposed  of — all  but 
Mary  Baines  and  her  sick  boy. 

' '  What  can  we  do  with  them  ?  "  said  John,  questioningly 
to  Ursula. 

"  I  see  but  one  course.  We  must  take  him  in  ;  his 
mother  says  hunger  is  the   chief  tiling  that  ails  the  lad 


328  JOHX    HALIFAX. 

She  fancies  that  he  has  had  the  measles  ;  but  our  childreii 
have  had  it  too,  so  there's  no  fear.  Come  upstairs,  Mary 
Baines." 

Passing,  with  a  thankful  look,  the  room  where  her  own 
boys  slept,  the  good  mother  established  this  forlorn  young 
mother  and  her  two  children  in  a  little  closet  ouiside  tlie 
nursery  door  ;  cheered  her  with  comfortable  words  ;  helped 
her  ignoi'ance  with  wise  counsels — for  Ursula  was  the  gen- 
eral doctress  of  all  the  poor  folk  round.  It  was  almost  mid- 
night before  she  came  down  to  the  parlor  where  John  and 
I  sat,  he  with  little  Muriel  asleep  in  his  arms.  The  child 
would  gladly  have  slumbered  away  all  night  there,  with  the 
delicate,  pale  profile  pressed  close  into  his  breast. 

'•'  Is  all  right,  love  ?  How  tired  you  must  be  ! "  John 
put  his  left  arm  round  his  wife  as  she  came  and  knelt  by 
him,  in  front  of  the  cheerful  fire. 

"  Tired  ?  Oh,  of  course  ;  but  you  can't  think  how  com- 
fortable they  are  up-stairs.  Only  poor  Mary  Baines  does 
notliing  but  cry,  and  keep  telling  me  that  nothing  ails  her 
lad  but  hunger.     Are  they  so  very  poor  ?  " 

John  did  not  immediately  answer  ;  I  fancied  he  looked 
suddenly  uneasy,  and  imperceptibly  pressed  his  little  girl 
closer  to  him. 

"The  lad  seems  very  ill.  Much  worse  than  our  children 
were  with  measles." 

"  Yet  how  they  suffered,  poor  pets  !  especially  Walter. 
It  was  the  thought  of  them  made  mo  pity  her  so.  Surely 
I  have  not  done  wrong  ?  " 

"  No — love  ;  quite  right  and  kind.  Acting  so,  I  think 
one  need  not  fear.  See,  mother,  how  soundly  Muriel 
sleeps.  It's  almost  a  pity  to  waken  her— but  we  must  go 
to  bed  now." 

"  Stay  one  minute,"  I  said.  "  Tell  us,  John — I  quite 
forgot  to  ask  till  now — what  is  that  '  painful  business  '  you 
mentioned,  which  called  the  sheritf  to  Lord  Luxmore's  ?  " 

John  glanced  at  his  wife,  leaning  fondly  against  him,  her 
face  full  of  sweet  peace,  then  at  his  little  daughter  asleep, 
then  round  the  cheerful  fire-lit  room,  outside  which  the 
autumn  night- wind  went  howling  furiously. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  329 

"  Love,  we  that  are  so  happy,  we  must  not,  dare  not, 
condemn." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  shocked  inquiry.  "  You  don't 
mean — No  ;  it  is  impossible  ! '' 

"  It  is  true.     She  has  gone  away." 

Ursula  sank  down,  hiding  her  face.  "  Horrible  !  And 
only  two  days  since  she  was  here,  kissing  our  children." 

We  all  three  kept  a  long  silence  ;  then  I  ventured  to  ask- 
when  she  went  away. 

"This  morning,  early.  They  took — at  least  Mr.  Ver- 
milye  did — all  the  property  of  Lord  Luxmore's  tliat  he 
could  lay  his  hands  upon— family  jewels  and  money  to  a 
considerable  amount.  The  earl  is  pursuing  him  now,  not 
only  as  his  daughter's  seducer,  but  as  a  swindler  and  a 
thief." 

"And  Eichard  Brithwood  ?" 

"  Drinks — and  drinks — and  drinks.  That  is  the  begin- 
ning and  the  end  of  all." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said.     She  had  dropped  for 

ever  out  of  her  old  life,  as  completely  as  a  star  out  of  the 

sky.     Henceforth,  for  years  and  years,  neither  in  our  home, 

nor,  I  believe,  in  any  other,  was  there  the  slightest  mention 

made  of  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood. " 

*  *  *  *  * 

All  the  next  day  John  was  from  home,  settling  the 
Kingswell  affair.  The  ejected  tenants — our  tenants  now 
— left  us  at  last,  giving  a  parting  cheer  for  Mr.  Halifax, 
the  best  master  in  all  England. 

Sitting  down  to  tea,  with  no  small  relief  that  all  was 
over,  John  asked  his  wife  after  the  sick  lad. 

"  He  is  very  ill  still,  I  think." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  measles  ?  " 

"  I  imagine  so  ;  and  I  have  seen  nearly  all  childish  dis- 
eases, except  —  no,  that  is  quite  impossible  I"  added  the 
mother,  hastily.  She  cast  an  anxious  glance  on  her  little 
ones  ;  her  hand  slightly  shook  as  she  poured  out  their  cups 
of  milk.  "  Do  you  think,  John — it  was  hard  to  do  it  when 
the  child  is  so  ill — I  ought  to  have  sent  them  away  with 
the  others  ?  " 


330  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Certainly  not.  If  it  Avere  anything  dangerous^,  of 
course  Mary  Baines  would  have  told  us.  What  are  the 
lad's  symptoms  ?  " 

As  Ursula  informed  him,  I  thought  he  looked  more  and 
more  serious  ;  but  he  did  not  let  her  see. 

"  Make  your  mind  easy,  love  ;  a  word  from  Dr.  Jessop 
will  decide  all.  I  will  fetch  him  after  tta.  Cheer  up. 
Please  God,  no  harm  will  come  to  our  little  ones  !  ''* 

The  mother  brightened  again  ;  with  her  all  the  rest ; 
and  the  tea-table  clatter  went  on,  merry  as  ever.  Then,  it 
being  a  wet  night,  Mrs.  Halifax  gathered  her  boys  round 
her  knee  for  an  evening  chat  over  the  kitchen-fire,  while 
through  the  open  door,  out  of  the  dim  parlor,  came 
"•  Muriel's  voice, ''as  we  called  the  harpsichord.  It  seemed 
sweeter  than  ever  this  night,  like — as  her  father  once  said, 
but  checked  himself,  and  never  said  it  afterwards — like 
]\Iuriel  talking  with  the  angels. 

He  sat  listening  awhile,  then,  without  any  remark,  put 
on  his  coat  and  went  out  to  fetch  the  good  doctor.  I  fol- 
lowed him  down  to  the  stream. 

"  Phineas,"  he  said,  "  will  you  mind — don't  notice  it  to 
the  mother — but  mind  and  keep  her  and  the  children  down, 
stairs  till  I  come  back  ?  " 

I  promised.   "  Are  you  uneasy  about  Mary  Baines's  lad  ?  " 

"^No  ;  I  have  full  trust  in  human  means,  and  above  all, 
in — what  I  need  not  speak  of.  Still,  precautions  are  wise. 
Do  you  remember  that  day  when,  rather  against  Ursula's 
wish,  I  vaccinated  the  children  ?  " 

I  remembered.  Also  that  the  virus  had  taken  effect 
with  all  but  Muriel  ;  and  we  had  lately  talked  of  repeating 
the  much-blamed  and  miraculous  experiment  upon  her. 
I  hinted  this. 

'^Phineas,  you  mistake,"  he  answered  rather  sharply. 
*'  She  is  quite  safe — as  safe  as  the  others.  I  wrote  to  Dr. 
Jenner  himself.  But-  don't  mention  that  I  spoke  about 
this." 

''Why?" 

"  Because  to-day  I  heard  that  they  have  had  the  small- 
pox at  Kingswell," 


JOH]!f    HALIFAX.  331 

I  felt  a  cold  shudder.  Though  inoculation  and  vaccina- 
tion had  made  it  less  fatal  among  the  upper  classes,  this 
frightful  scourge  still  decimated  the  poor,  especially  chil- 
dren. Great  was  the  obstinacy  in  refusing  relief  ;  and  loud 
the  outcry  in  Norton  Bury,  wlien  Mr.  Halifax,  who  had 
met  and  known  Dr.  Jenner  in  London — hnding  no  practi- 
tioner that  would  do  it,  persisted  in  administering  the  vac- 
cine virus  himself  to  his  children.  But  still,  with  natural 
fear,  he  had  kept  them  out  of  all  risk  of  taking  the  small- 
pox until  now. 

••  John,  do  you  think " 

"  No  ;  I  will  not  allow  myself  to  think.  Not  a  word  of 
this  at  home,  mind.     Good-bye  !  " 

He  walked  away,  and  T  returned  up  the  path  heavily,  as 
if  a  cloud  of  terror  and  dole  were  visibly  hanging  over  our 
happy  Longfield. 

The  doctor  appeared  ;  he  went  u]i  to  the  sick  lad  ;  then 
he  and  Mr.  Halifax  were  closeted  together  for  a  long  time. 
After  he  was  gone,  John  came  into  the  kitchen,  where 
Ursula  sat  with  Walter  on  her  knee.  The  child  was  in  liis 
little  white  night-gown,  playing  with  his  elder  brothers, 
and  warming  his  rosy  toes. 

The  mother  had  recovered  herself  entirely  :  Avas  content 
and  gay.  I  saw  John's  glance  at  her,  and  then — and  then 
I  feared. 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?  The  child  will  soon  be 
well?" 

"  We  must  hope  so." 

"  John,  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  thought  the  little  fellow 
looked  better  when  I  went  up  to  see  him  last.  And  there 
— I  hear  the  poor  mother  up-stairs  crying." 

"She  may  cry  ;  she  has  need,"  said  John,  bitterly. 
'*  She  knew  it  all  the  while.  She  never  thought  of  our 
children  ;  but  they  are  safe.  Be  content,  love — please  God, 
they  are  quite  safe.     Very  few  take  it  after  vaccination." 

"  It — do  you  mean  the  smallpox  ?  Has  the  lad  got 
smallpox  ?  Oh,  God  help  us  !  My  children — my  chil- 
dren ! " 

She  grew  white  as  death ;  long  shivers  came  over  hei 


332  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

from  head  to  foot.  The  little  boys,  frightened,  crept  up 
to  her  ;  she  clasped  them  altogether  in  her  arras,  turning 
her  head  with  a  wild,  savage  look,  as  if  some  one  were 
stealing  behind  to  take  them  from  her. 

Muriel,  perceiving  the  silence,  felt  her  way  across  the 
room,  and  touching  her  mothers  face,  said,  anxiously, 
"  Has  anybody  been  naughty  ? " 

"  No,  my  darling  ;  no  ! " 

"  Then  never  mind.  Father  says,  nothing  will  harm  us, 
except  being  naughty.     Did  you  not,  father  ?  " 

John  snatched  his  little  daughter  up  to  his  bosom,  and 
called  her  for  the  hundredth  time  the  name  my  poor  old 
father  had  named  her,  the  ' '  blessed  "  child. 

We  all  grew  calmer  ;  the  mother  wept  a  little,  and  it  did 
her  good  :  we  comforted  the  boys  and  Muriel,  telling  them 
that  in  trutli  nothing  was  the  matter,  only  we  were  afraid 
of  their  catching  the  little  lad's  sickness,  and  they  must  not 
go  near  him. 

'^  Yes  ;  she  shall  quit  the  house  this  minute — this  very 
minute,"  said  the  mother,  sternly,  but  with  a  sor.t  of  wild- 
ness  too. 

Her  husband  made  no  immediate  answer  ;  but  as  she 
rose  to  leave  the  room,  he  detained  her.  "Ursula,  do  you 
know  the  child  is  all  but  dying  ?  " 

"  Let  him  die  !  The  wicked  woman  !  She  knew  it,  and 
she  let  me  bring  him  among  my  children — my  own  poor 
children  ! " 

"  I  would  she  had  never  come.  But  what  is  done  is 
done.  Love,  think — if  you  were  turned  out  of  doors  this 
bleak,  rainy  night — with  a  dying  child." 

"  Hush  !  hush  I " — She  sank  down  with  a  sob. 

"  My  darling  !  "  whispered  John,  as  he  made  her  lean 
against  him — her  support  and  comfort  in  all  things  ;  "'  do 
you  think  my  heart  is  not  ready  to  break,  like  yours  ?  But 
I  trust  in  God.  This  trouble  came  upon  us  while  v/e  were 
doing  right ;  let  us  do  right  still,  and  we  need  not  fear. 
Humanly  speaking,  our  children  are  safe  ;  it  is  only  our 
own  terror  which  exaggerates  the  danger.  They  may  not 
take  the  disease  at  all.     Then^  how  could  we  answer  it  to 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  333 

our  conscience  if  we  turned  out  tliis  poor  soul,  and  her 
cliilddied  ?" 

"No  !  no  !" 

"We  will  use  all  precautions.  The  boys  shall  be  moved 
to  the  other  end  of  the  house." 

I  proposed  that  they  should  occupy  my  room,  as  I  had 
had  snialljjox,  and  was  safe. 

"  Thank  you,  Phineas  ;  and  even  should  they  take  it. 
Dr.  Jemier  has  assured  me  that  in  every  case  after  vaccin- 
ation it  has  been  the  very  slightest  form  of  the  complaint. 
Be  patient,  love  ;  trust  in  God,  and  have  no  fear." 

Her  husband's  voice  gradually  calmed  her.  At  last,  she 
turned  and  clung  round  his  neck,  silently  and  long.  Then 
she  rose  up  and  went  about  her  usual  duties,  just  as  if  this 
horrible  dread  were  not  upon  us. 

^lary  Baines  and  her  cliildren  stayed  in  the  house.  Next 
day  about  noon,  the  little  lad  died. 

It  was  the  first  death  that  had  ever  happened  under  our 
roof.  It  shocked  us  all  very  much,  especially  the  children. 
We  kept  them  far  away  on  the  other  side  of  the  house — 
out  of  the  house,  when  possible — but  still  they  would  be 
coming  back  and  looking  uj)  at  the  window,  at  which,  as 
Muriel  declared,  the  little  sick  boy  "  had  turned  into  an 
angel  and  flown  away."  The  mother  allowed  the  fancy  to 
remain  ;  she  thought  it  wrong  and  horrible  that  a  child's 
first  idea  of  death  should  be  "  putting  into  the  pit-hole." 
Truer  and  more  beautiful  was  Muriel's  instinctive  notion 
of  "  turning  into  an  angel  and  flying  away."  So  we  ar- 
ranged that  the  poor  little  body  should  be  coffined  and  re- 
moved before  the  children  rose  next  morning. 

It  was  a  very  cpiiet  tea-time.  A  sense  of  awe  was  upon 
the  little  ones,  they  knew  not  why.  Many  questions  they 
asked  about  poor  Tommy  Baines,  and  where  he  had  gone  to, 
which  the  mother  only  answered  after  the  simple  manner 
of  Scripture — he  "  was  not,  for  God  took  him."  But  when 
they  saw  Mary  Baines  go  crying  down  the  field-path,  Muriel 
asked  "why  she  cried  ?  how  could  she  cry,  when  it  was 
God  who  had  taken  little  Tommy  ?  " 

Afterwards  she  tried  to  learn  of  me  privately,  what  sort 


334  JOHJT   HALIFAX. 

of  place  it  was  he  had  gone  to,  and  how  he  went ;  whether 
he  had  carried  with  him  all  his  clothes,  and  especially  the 
great  bunch  of  woodbine  she  sent  to  him  yesterday  ;  and, 
above  all,  whether  he  had  gone  by  himself,  or  if  some  of 
the  "angels,"  which  held  so  large  a  place  in  Muriel's 
thoughts  and  of  which  she  was  ever  talking,  had  come  to 
fetch  him  and  take  care  of  him.  She  hoped — indeed,  she 
felt  sure — they  had.  She  wished  she  had  met  them,  or  heard 
them  about  in  the  house. 

And  seeing  how  tlie  child's  mind  was  running  on  the 
subject,  I  thought  it  best  to  explain  to  her  as  simply  as  I 
could,  the  solemn  putting  off  of  life  and  putting  on  of 
immortality.  I  wished  that  my  darling,  who  could  never 
visibly  behold  death,  should  understand  it  as  no  image  of 
terror,  but  only  as  a  calm  sleep  and  a  joyful  waking  in 
another  country,  the  glories  of  which  eye  had  not  seen  nor 
ear  heard. 

"  Eye  has  not  seen  !  "  repeated  Muriel,  thoughtfully ; 
"  can  people  see  there.  Uncle  Phineas  ? '' 

"  Yes,  my  child.     There  is  no  darkness  at  all." 

She  paused  a  minute,  and  said  earnestly,  "  I  want  to  go 
— very  much  want  to  go.  How  long  do  you  think  it  will 
be  before  the  angels  come  for  me  ?  " 

"  Many,  many  years,  my  precious  one,"  said  I  shudder- 
ing ;  for  truly  she  looked  so  like  them  that  I  began  to  fear 
they  were  close  at  hand. 

But  a  few  minutes  afterwards  she  was  playing  witli  her 
brothers  and  talking  to  her  j^et  doves,  so  sweet  and  human- 
like, that  the  fear  passed  away. 

We  sent  the  children  early  to  bed  that  night,  and  sat 
long  by  the  fire,  considering  how  best  to  remove  infection, 
and  almost  satisfied  that  in  these  two  daj^s  it  could  not  have 
taken  any  great  hold  on  the  house.  John  was  firm  in  his 
belief  in  Dr.  Jenner  and  vaccination.  We  went  to  bed 
greatly  comforted,  and  the  household  sank  into  quiet 
slumbers,  even  though  under  its  roof  slept  in  deeper  sleep, 
tlie  little  dead  child. 

That  small  closet  which  was  next  to  the  nursery  I  occu- 
pied, safely  shut  out  by  it  from  the  rest  of  the  house,  seemed 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  335 

very  still  now.  I  went  to  sleep  thinking  of  it,  and  dreamed 
of  it  afterwards. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  a  slight  noise  woke  me,  and  I 
almost  fancied  I  was  dreaming  still  ;  for  there  I  saw  a  little 
white  figure  gliding  past  my  bed's  foot ;  so  softly  and 
soundlessly — it  might  have  been  the  ghost  of  a  child — and 
it  went  into  the  dead  child's  room. 

For  a  moment  that  superstitious  instinct  which  I  believe 
we  all  have,  paralyzed  me.  Then  I  tried  to  listen.  There 
was  most  certainly  a  sound  in  the  next  room — a  faint  cry, 
quickly  smothered — a  very  human  cry.  All  the  stories  I 
had  ever  heard  of  supposed  death  and  i)remature  burial 
rushed  horribly  into  my  mind.  Conquering  alike  my 
superstitious  dread  or  fear  of  entering  the  infected  room, 
I  leaped  out  of  bed,  threw  on  some  clothes,  got  a  light,  and 
went  in. 

There  lay  the  little  corpse,  all  safe  and  still — for  ever. 
And  like  its  own  spirit  watching  in  the  night  at  the  head  of 
the  forsaken  clay,  sat  Muriel. 

I  snatched  her  up  and  ran  with  her  out  of  the  room,  in 
an  agonv  of  fear. 

She  hid  her  face  on  my  shoulder,  trembling.  ''  I  have 
not  done  wrong,  have  I  ?  I  wanted  to  know  what  it  was 
like — that  which  you  said  was  left  of  little  Tommy.  I 
touched  it — it  was  so  cold.  Oh  !  Uncle  Phineas,  that  isn't 
poor  little  Tommy  ?  " 

"No,  my  blessed  one— no,  my  dearest  child!  Don't 
think  of  it  any  more." 

And,  hardly  knowing  what  was  best  to  be  done,  I  called 
John,  and  told  him  where  I  had  found  his  little  daughter. 
He  never  spoke,  but  snatched  her  out  of  my  arms  into  his 
own,  took  her  in  his  room,  and  shut  the  door. 

From  that  time  our  fears  never  slumbered.  For  one 
whole  week  we  waited,  watching  the  children  hour  by  hour, 
noting  each  change  in  each  little  face  ;  then  Muriel  sick- 
ened. 

It  was  I  who  was  to  tell  her  father,  when  as  he  came 
home  in  the  evening  I  met  him  by  the  stream.  It  seemed 
to  him  almost  like  the  stroke  of  death. 


33C  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  not  her  !  Any  but  her  ! "  And  by  that 
I  knew,  what  I  had  long  guessed,  that  she  was  the  dearest 
of  all  his  children. 

Edwin  and  Walter  took  the  disease  likewise,  though 
lightly.  ]S[o  one  was  in  absolute  danger,  except  Muriel. 
But  for  weeks  we  had  what  peeple  call  "  sickness  in  the 
house  ; "  that  terrible  overhanging  shadow  which  mothers 
and  fathers  well  know  ;  under  which  one  must  live  and 
move,  never  resting  night  nor  day.  This  mother  and  father 
bore  their  portion,  and  bore  it  well.  When  she  broke  down, 
which  was  not  often,  he  sustained  her.  If  I  were  to  tell  of 
all  he  did — how,  after  being  out  all  day,  night  after  night 
he  would  sit  up  watching  by  and  nursing  each  little  fretful 
sufferer,  patient  as  a  woman,  and  pleasant  as  a  child-play- 
mate. Perhaps  those  who  talk  loftily  of  "  the  dignity  of 
man"  would  smile.     I  pardon  them. 

The  hardest  minute  of  the  twenty-four  hours  was,  I  think, 
that  when,  coming  home,  he  caught  sight  of  me  afar  off 
waiting  for  him,  as  I  always  did,  at  the  White  Gate  ;  and 
many  a  time,  as  we  walked  down  to  the  stream,  I  saw — 
what  no  one  else  saw  but  God.  After  such  times  I  used 
often  to  ponder  over  what  great  love  His  must  be,  who,  as 
the  clearest  revelation  of  it,  and  of  its  nature,  calls  Himself 
^' the  Father." 

And  He  brought  us  safe  through  our  time  of  anguish  : 
He  left  us  every  one  of  our  little  ones. 

One  November  Sunday,  when  all  the  fields  were  in  a 
mist,  and  the  rain  came  pouring  softly  and  incessantly  upon 
the  patient  earth,  Avhich  had  been  so  torn  and  dried  up  by 
east  winds,  that  she  seemed  glad  enough  to  put  aside  the 
mockery  of  sunshine  and  melt  in  quiet  tears,  we  once  more 
gathered  our  flock  together  in  thankfulness  and  joy. 

Muriel  came  down  stairs  triumphantly  in  her  father's 
arms,  and  lay  on  the  sofa  smiling  ;  the  firelight  dancing  on 
her  small  white  face — white  and  unscarred.  The  disease 
had  been  kind  to  the  blind  child  ;  she  was,  I  think,  more 
sweet-looking  than  ever.  Older,  perhaps  ;  the  round  pret- 
tiness  of  childhood  gone  ;  but  her  whole  appearance  wore 
that  inexpressible  expression,  in  which,  for  want  of  a  suit- 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  33? 

able  word,  we  all  embody  our  vague  notions  of  the  unknown 
world,  and  call  "angelic." 

"Does  Muriel  feel  quite  well — quite  strong  and  well  ?" 
the  father  and  mother  both  kept  saying  every  now  and 
then  as  they  looked  at  her.  She  always  answered,  '^' Quite 
well." 

In  the  afternoon,  when  the  boys  were  jDlaying  in  the 
kitchen,  and  John  and  I  were  standing  at  the  ojDen  door, 
listening  to  the  dropping  of  the  rain  in  the  garden,  we 
heard,  after  its  long  silence,  Muriel's  "  voice." 

"  Father,  listen  !  "  whispered  the  mother,  linking  her 
arm  through  his  ^s  he  stood  at  the  door.  Soft  and  slow 
came  the  notes  of  the  old  harpsichord — she  was  playing 
one  of  the  abbey  anthems.  Then  it  melted  away  into 
melodies  we  knew  not — sweot  and  strange.  Her  parents 
looked  at  one  another — their  hearts  were  full  of  thankful- 
ness and  joy. 

"  And  Mary  Baiues'  little  lad  is  in  the  church-yard." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

''  What  a  comfort  !  the  daylight  is  lengthening.  1 
think  this  has  been  the  very  dreariest  winter  I  ever  knew. 
Has  it  not,  my  little  daughter  ?  Who  brought  her  these 
violets  ?  " 

And  John  placed  himself  on  a  corner  of  my  own  particu- 
lar arm-chair,  where,  somehow  or  other,  Muriel  always  lay 
curled  up  at  tea-time  now — (ay,  and  many  hours  in  the 
day-time,  though  we  hardly  noticed  it  at  first).  Taking 
between  his  hands  the  little  face,  which  broke  into  smiles 
at  the  merest  touch  of  the  father's  fingers,  he  asked  her 
^'  when  she  intended  to  go  a  walk  with  him  ?^' 

"  To-morrow." 

"  So  we  have  said  for  a  great  many  to-morrows,  but  it  is 
always  put  off.  What  do  you  think,  mother — is  the  little 
maid  strong  enough  ?  " 

Mrs.  Halifax  hesitated  ;  said  something  about  ''^east 
winds." 

*'  Yet  I  think  it  would  do  her  good  if  she  braved  east 
winds,  and  played  out  of  doors  as  the  boys  do.  Would  you 
not  like  it,  Muriel  ?  " 

The  child  shrank  back  with  an  involuntary  "  Oh,  no." 

"  That  is  because  she  is  a  little  girl  necessarily  less  strong 
than  the  lads  are.  Is  it  not  so.  Uncle  Phineas  ?  "  continued 
her  father,  hastily,  for  I  was  watching  them. 

"  Muriel  will  be  quite  strong  when  the  warm  weather 
comes.  We  have  had  such  a  severe  winter.  Everyone  of 
the  children  has  suffered,"  said  the  mother,  in  a  cheerful 
tone,  as  she  poured  out  a  cup  of  cream  for  her  daughter,  to 
whom  was  now  given,  by  common  consent,  all  the  richest 
and  rarest  of  the  house. 

"  I  think  everyone  has,"  said  John,  looking  round  on 
his  apple-cheeked  boys  ;  it  must  have  been  a  sharp  eye  that 
detected  any  decrease  of  health,  or  increase  of  suffering, 

338 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  339 

there.  '^  But  my  plan  will  set  all  to  rights.  I  sjjoke  to 
Mrs.  Tod  yesterday.  She  will  be  ready  to  take  us  all  in. 
Boys,  shall  you  like  going  to  Enderley  ?  You  shall  go  as 
soon  as  ever  the  larch- wood  is  green." 

For,  at  Longtield,  already  we  began  to  make  a  natural 
almanack  and  chronological  table.  "  \\'hen  the  may  was 
out  " — "  When  Guy  found  the  first  robin's  nest" — "  When 
the  field  was  all  cowslips  " — and  so  on. 

"Is  it  absolutely  necessary  we  should  go?"  said  the 
mother,  who  had  a  strong  home-clinging,  and  already  began 
to  hold  tiny  Longfield  as  the  apple  of  her  eye. 

''I  think  so,  unless  you  will  consent  to  let  me  go  alone 
to  Enderley." 

She  sliook  her  head. 

"  What,  with  those  troubles  at  the  mills  ?  How  can  you 
speak  so  lightly  ?  " 

"  Not  lightly,  love — only  cheerfully.  The  troubles  must 
be  borne  ;  why  not  bear  them  with  as  good  heart  as  pos- 
sible ?  They  cannot  last — let  Lord  Luxmore  do  what  he 
will.  If,  as  I  told  you,  we  re-let  Longfield  for  this  one 
summer  to  Sir  Ralph,  we  shall  save  enough  to  put  the  mill 
in  thorough  repair.  If  my  landlord  will  not  do  it,  I  will ; 
and  add  a  steam-engine,  too." 

Now  the  last  Avas  a  daring  scheme,  discussed  many  a 
winter  night  by  us  three  in  Longfield  parlor.  At  first 
Mrs.  Halifax  had  looked  grave — most  women  would, 
especially  wives  and  mothers,  in  those  days  when  every 
innovation  Avas  regarded  Avith  horror,  and  improvement  and 
ruin  were  held  synonymous.  She  might  have  thought  so 
too,  had  she  not  believed  in  her  husband.  But  now,  at 
mention  of  the  steam-engine,  she  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  Lady  Oldtower  asked  me  about  it  to-day.  She  said, 
*  she  hoped  you  would  not  ruin  yourself,  like  Mr.  Miller  of 
Glasgow  ! '     I  said  I  was  not  afraid." 

Her  husband  returned  a  bright  look.  "  It  is  easier  to 
make  the  world  trust  one,  when  one  is  trusted  by  one's  OAvn 
household." 

"  Ah  !  never  fear  ;  you  will  make  your  fortune  yet,  in 
spite  of  Lord  Luxmore." 


340  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

For,  all  v/inter,  Jolm  had  found  out  how  many  cares 
come  with  an  attahied  wish,  Chietiy,  because,  as  the  earl 
had  said,  his  lordship  possessed  an  "  excellent  memory." 
The  Kingswell  election  had  worked  its  results  in  a  hundred 
small  ways,  wherein  the  heavy  hand  of  the  landlord  could 
be  laid  upon  the  tenant.  He  bore  up  bravely  against  it ; 
but  hard  was  the  struggle  between  might  and  right,  oppres- 
sion and  staunch  resistance.  It  would  have  gone  harder, 
but  for  one  whom  John  now  began  to  call  his  "friend  ;"at 
least,  one  who  invarial)ly  called  Mr.  Halifax  so — our  neigh- 
bor, Sir  Ralph  Oldtower. 

•'  Hov/  often  has  Lady  Oldtower  been  here,  Ursula  ?" 

"  She  called  first,  you  remember,  after  our  trouble  with 
the  children  ;  she  has  been  twice  since,  I  think.  To-day, 
she  wanted  me  to  bring  Muriel  and  take  luncheon  at  the 
Manor  House.     I  shall  not  go — I  told  her  so." 

"  But  gently,  I  hope  ? — you  are  so  very  out-spoken,  love. 
You  made  her  clearly  understand  that  it  is  not  from  in- 
civility we  decline  her  invitations  ? — Well — never  mind  ! 
Some  day  we  will  take  our  j^lace,  and  so  shall  our  children, 
with  any  gentry  in  the  land." 

I  think — though  John  rarely  betrayed  it — he  had  strongly 
this  presentiment  of  future  power,  which  may  often  be 
noticed  in  men  who  have  carved  out  their  own  fortunes. 
They  have  in  them  the  instinct  to  rise  ;  and  as  surely  as 
water  regains  its  own  level  so  do  they,  from  however  low 
a  source,  ascend  to  theirs. 

N"ot  many  weeks  after,  we  removed  in  a  body  to  Enderley. 
Though  the  chief  reason  was,  that  John  might  be  constantly 
on  the  spot,  superintending  his  mills,  yet  I  fancied  I  could 
detect  a  secondary  reason,  which  he  would  not  own  even  to 
liimself  ;  but  which  peered  out  unconsciously  in  his  anxious 
looks.  I  saw  it  when  he  tried  to  rouse  Muriel  into  energy, 
by  telling  her  how  much  she  would  enjoy  Enderley  Hill  ; 
how  sweet  the  primroses  grew  in  the  beech-wood,  and  how 
wild  and  fresh  the  wind  swept  over  tlie  common,  morning 
and  night.  His  daily  longing  seemed  to  be  to  make  her 
love  the  world,  and  the  things  therein.  He  used  to  turn 
away,  almost  in  pain,  from  her  smile,  as  she  would  listen  to 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  341 

all  he  said,  then  steal  oil  to  the  harpsiehord,  and  begin  that 
soft  dreamy  music,  which  the  children  called  *'  talking  to 
angels." 

We  came  to  Enderley  through  the  valley,  where  was 
John's  cloth-mill.  Many  a  time  in  our  walks  he  and  I  had 
passed  it,  and  stoj^ped  to  listen  to  the  drowsy  fall  of  tlie 
miniature  Niagara,  or  watch  the  incessant  turning — turning 
of  the  great  water-wheel.  Little  we  thought  he  should 
ever  own  it,  or  that  John  would  be  pointing  it  out  to  his 
own  boys,  lecturing  them  on  "under-shot"  and  "over- 
shot," as  he  used  to  lecture  me. 

It  was  sweet,  though  half-melancholy,  to  see  Enderley 
again  ;  to  climb  the  steep  meadows,  and  narrow  mule-paths, 
up  which  he  used  to  help  me  so  kindly.  He  could  not 
now  ;  he  had  his  little  daughter  in  his  arms.  It  had  come, 
alas  !  to  be  a  regular  thing  that  Muriel  should  be  carried 
up  every  slight  ascent,  and  along  every  hard  road.  We 
paused  half-way  up  on  a  low  wall,  where  I  had  many  a  time 
rested,  watching  the  sunset  over  Nunneley  Hill — watching 
for  John  to  come  home.  Every  night — at  least  after  Miss 
March  went  away — he  usually  found  me  sitting  there. 

He  turned  to  me  and  smiled.  "  Dost  remember,  lad  ?  " 
at  which  appellation  Guy  widely  stared.  But  for  a  minute, 
how  strangely  it  brought  back  old  times,  when  there  were 
neither  wife  nor  children — only  he  and  I !  This  seat  on  the 
wall,  with  its  small  twilight  picture  of  the  valley  below  the 
mill,  and  Nunncley  heights,  with  that  sentinel  row  of  sun- 
set trees — was  all  mine — mine  solely — for  evermore. 

"  Enderley  is  just  the  same,  Phineas.  Twelve  years  have 
made  no  change — except  in  us."  And  he  looked  fondly  at 
his  wife,  who  stood  a  little  way  oif ,  holding  firmly  on  the 
wall,  in  a  hazardous  group,  her  three  boys.  "  I  think  the 
chorus  and  comment  on  all  life  might  be  included  in  two 
brief  phrases  given  by  our  friend  Shakespeare,  one  to  Ham- 
let, the  other  to  Othello;  ''Tis  vmj  strange,'  and  "Tis 
better  as  it  is.'  " 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  I  thoughtfully.  "  Better  as  it  was  ;  bet- 
ter, a  thousand  times." 

I  went  to  Mrs.   Halifax,  and  helped  her  to  describe  the 


342  JOHIsr   HALIFAX. 

prospect  to  the  inquisitive  bo^^s  ;  finally  coaxing  the  refrac- 
tory Guy  up  the  winding  road,  where,  just  as  if  it  had  been 
yesterday,  stood  my  old  friends,  my  four  Lombardy  poplars, 
three  together  and  one  apart. 

Mrs.  Tod  descried  us  afar  off,  and  was  waiting  at  the 
gate  ;  a  little  stouter,  a  little  rosier — that  was  all.  In  her  de- 
light she  so  absolutely  forgot  herself  as  to  address  the  mother 
as  Miss  March  ;  at  which  long-unspoken  name  Ursula 
started,  her  color  went  and  camiC,  and  her  eyes  turned  rest 
lessly  towards  the  church  hard  by. 

"It  is  all  right — Miss— Ma'am,  I  mean.  Tod  bears  in 
mind  Mr.  Halifax's  orders,  and  has  planted  lots  o'  flower- 
roots  and  evergreens." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

And  when  she  had  put  all  her  little  ones  to  bed — we, 
wondering  where  the  motlier  was,  went  out  towards  the 
little  churchyard,  and  found  her  quietly  sitting  there. 

We  were  very  happy  at  Enderlej.  Muriel  brightened  up 
before  she  had  been  there  many  days.  She  began  to  throw 
off  her  listlessness,  and  ran  about  with  mo  everywhere.  It 
was  the  season  she  enjoyed  most — the  time  of  the  singing 
of  birds,  and  the  springing  of  delicate  scented  flowers.  I 
myself  never  loved  the  beechwood  better  than  did  our 
Muriel.  She  used  continually  to  tell  us,  this  was  the  hap- 
piest spring  she  had  ever  had  in  her  life. 

John  was  much  occujiied  now.  He  left  his  Norton  Bury 
business  under  efficient  care,  and  devoted  himself  almost 
wholly  to  the  cloth-mill.  Early  and  late  he  was  there. 
Very  often  Muriel  and  I  followed  him,  and  sjient  whole 
mornings  in  the  mill  meadows.  Through  them  the  stream 
on  which  the  machinery  depended  was  led  by  various  con- 
trivances, checked  or  increased  in  its  flow,  making  small 
ponds,  or  locks,  or  waterfalls.  Vie  used  to  stay  for  hours 
listening  to  its  murmur,  to  the  sharp,  strange  cry  of  the 
swans  that  were  kept  there,  and  the  twitter  of  the  water- 
hen  to  her  young  among  the  reeds.  Then  the  father  would 
come  to  us  and  remain  a  few  minutes — fondling  Muriel, 
and  telling  me  how  things  went  on  at  the  mill. 

One  morning,  as  we  three  sat  there,  on  the  brick-work  oi 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  343 

a  little  bridge,  underneath  an  elm  tree,  round  the  roots  of 
which  the  water  made  a  pool  so  clear,  that  we  could  see  a 
large  pike  lying  like  a  black  shadow^  half-way  down ;  John 
suddenly  said — 

'"  What  is  tlie  matter  with  the  stream  ?  Do  you  notice, 
Phineas  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  it  gradually  lowering — these  two  hours.  I 
thought  you  were  drawing  off  the  water." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind — I  must  look  after  it.  Good-bye, 
my  little  daughter.  Don't  cling  so  fast ;  father  will  be 
back  soon — and  isn't  this  a  sweet,  sunny  place  for  a  little 
maid  to  be  lazy  in  ?  " 

His  tone  was  gay,  but  he  had  an  anxious  look.  He 
walked  rapidly  down  the  meadows,  and  went  into  his  mill. 
Then  I  saw  him  retracing  his  steps,  examining  wliere  the 
stream  entered  the  bounds  of  his  property.  Finally,  he 
walked  off  towards  the  little  town  at  the  head  of  the  valley 
—beyond  which,  buried  in  woods,  lay  Luxmore  Hall.  It 
was  two  hours  more  before  we  saw  him  again. 

Then  he  came  towards  us,  narrowly  watching  the  stream. 
It  had  sunk  more  and  more — the  muddy  bottom  was  show- 
ing plainly. 

"  Yes — that's  it — it  can  be  nothing  else  !  I  did  not 
think  he  would  have  dared  to  do  it." 

"  Do  what,  John  ?     Who?" 

"  Lord  Luxmore."  He  spoke  in  the  smothered  tones  of 
violent  passion.  "  Lord  Luxmore  has  turned  out  of  its 
course  the  stream  that  works  my  mill." 

I  tried  to  urge  that  such  an  act  was  improbable  ;  in  fact, 
against  the  law. 

"  Not  against  the  law  of  the  great  against  the  little  ! 
Besides,  he  gives  a  decent  coloring — says  he  only  wants  the 
use  of  the  stream  three  days  a  week,  to  make  fountains  at 
Luxmore  Hall.  But  I  see  what  it  is — I  have  seen  it  coming 
a  whole  year.     He  is  determined  to  ruin  me  ! " 

John  said  this  in  much  excitement.  He  hardly  felt 
Muriel's  tiny  creeping  hands. 

"  What  does  '  ruin  "  mean  ?  Is  anybody  making  father 
angry  ?  " 


344  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  No,  my  sweet — not  angry — only  very,  very  miser- 
able ! " 

He  snatched  her  up,  and  buried  his  head  in  her  soft, 
childish  bosom.     She  kissed  him  and  patted  his  hair. 

"  Never  mind,  dear  father.  You  say  nothing  signifies, 
if  we  are  only  good.     And  father  is  always  good." 

"  I  wish  I  were." 

He  sat  down  with  her  on  his  knee  ;  the  murmur  of  the 
elm-leaves,  and  the  slow  dropping  of  the  stream,  soothed 
him.  By  and  by,  his  spirit  rose,  as  it  always  did,  the 
heavier  it  was  pressed  down. 

"No,  Lord  Luxmore  shall  not  ruin  me  !  I  have  thought 
of  a  scheme.  But  first,  I  must  speak  to  my  people — I  shall 
have  to  shorten  wages  for  a  time." 

"  How  soon  ?  " 

"To-night.  If  it  must  be  done — better  done  at  once, 
before  winter  sets  in.  Poor  fellows  !  it  will  go  hard  with 
them — they'll  be  hard  upon  me.  But  it  is  only  temporary  ; 
I  must  reason  them  into  patience,  if  I  can  ; — God  knows, 
it  is  not  they  alone  who  want  it." 

He  almost  ground  his  teeth  as  he  saw  the  sun  shining  on 
the  far  white  wing  of  Luxmore  Hall. 

"  Have  you  no  way  of  righting  yourself  ?  If  it  is  an 
unlawful  act,  why  not  go  to  law  ?  " 

"  Phineas,  you  forget  myprincijile — only  mine,  hoAvever  ; 
I  do  not  force  it  upon  any  one  else — my  firm  principle,  that 
I  will  never  go  to  law.  Never  !  I  would  not  like  to  have 
it  said,  in  contradistinction  to  the  old  saying,  '  See  how 
these  Christians  j^^/ii^ .' '  " 

I  urged  no  more  ;  since,  whether  abstractedly  the  ques- 
tion be  right  or  wrong,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  what  a 
man  believes  to  be  evil,  to  him  it  is  evil. 

"  Now,  Uncle  Phineas,  go  you  home  with  Muriel.  Tell 
my  wife  Avhat  has  occurred — say,  I  will  come  to  tea  as  soon 
as  I  can.  But  I  may  have  some  little  trouble  with  my  peo- 
ple here.     She  must  not  alarm  herself." 

No.  the  mother  never  did.  She  wasted  no  time  in 
puerile  apprehensions — it  was  not  her  nature  ;  she  had  the 
rare  feminine  virtue  of  never  "  fidgetting  "' — at  least  ex* 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  345 

ternally.  What  was  to  be  borne — she  bore  :  what  was  to 
be  done — she  did  ;  but  she  rarely  made  any  "  fuss  "  about 
either  her  doings  or  her  sufferings. 

To-nigJit,  she  heard  all  my  explanation  ;  understood  it,  I 
think,  more  clearly  than  I  did — probably  from  being  better 
acquainted  with  her  husband's  plans  and  fears.  She  saw 
at  once  the  position  in  wliich  he  Avas  placed  ;  a  grave  one, 
to  judge  by  her  countenance. 

"  Then  you  think  John  is  right  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

I  had  not  meant  it  as  a  question,  or  even  a  doubt.  But 
it  was  pleasant  to  hear  her  thus  answer.  For,  as  I  have 
said,  Ursula  was  not  a  woman  to  be  led  blindfold,  even  by 
her  husband.  Sometimes  they  differed  on  minor  jioints, 
and  talked  their  ditt'orences  lovingly  out  ;  but  on  any  great 
(juestion  she  had  always  this  safe  trust  in  him — that  if  one 
were  right  ai^id  the  other  Avrong,  the  erring  one  was  much 
more  likely  to  be  herself  than  John. 

She  said  no  more  ;  but  put  the  children  to  bed  ;  then 
came  down  stairs  with  her  bonnet  on. 

"  Will  you  come  with  mc,  Phineas  ?  Or  are  you  too 
tired  ?     I  am  going  down  to  the  mill." 

She  started,  walking  quickly — yet  not  so  quick  but  that 
on  the  slope  of  the  common  she  stooped  to  pick  up  a 
crying  child,  and  send  it  home  to  its  mother  in  Euderley 
village. 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  we  met  no  one  else  except  a 
young  man,  whom  I  had  occasionally  seen  about  of  even- 
ings. He  was  rather  odd  looking,  being  invariably  muf- 
fled up  in  a  large  cloak  and  a  foreign  sort  of  hat. 

"  AYho  is  that  watching  our  mills  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Halifax, 
hastily. 

I  told  her  all  I  had  seen  of  the  person. 

"A  Papist,  most  likely — I  mean  a  Catholic."  (John  ob- 
jected to  the  opprobrious  word,  "Papist.'")  '-'Mrs.  Tod 
says  there  are  a  good  many  hidden  hereabouts.  They  used 
to  find  shelter  at  Luxmore." 

And  that  name  set  both  our  thoughts  anxiously  wander- 
ing ;  sj  that  not  until  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill  did  1 


346  JOHJf    HALIFAX. 

notice  that  the  person  had  followed  us  almost  to  the  mill 
gates. 

In  his  empty  mill,  standing  beside  one  of  its  silenced 
looms,  we  found  the  master.  He  was  very  much  dejected. 
— Ursula  touched  his  arm  before  he  even  saw  her. 

"  Well,  love — you  know  what  has  happened  ?  '' 

"  Yes,  John.     But  never  mind." 

"I  would  not — except  for  my  poor  people." 

"  What  do  you  intend  doing  ?  That  which  you  have 
wished  to  do  all  the  year  ?  " 

"  Our  wishes  come  as  a  cross  to  us  sometimes,"  he  said, 
rather  bitterly.  "  It  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do.  The  water- 
power  being  go  greatly  lessened,  I  must  either  stop  the  mills, 
or  work  them  by  steam." 

"  Do  tluit,  then.     Set  up  your  steam-engine." 

"  And  have  all  the  country  down  upon  me  for  destroying 
hand-labor  ?  Have  a  new  set  of  Luddites  coming  to  burn 
my  mill  and  break  my  machinery  ?  That  is  what  Lord 
Luxmore  wants.  Did  he  not  say  he  would  ruin  me  ? — 
Worse  than  this, — he  is  ruining  my  good  name.  If  you  had 
heard  those  poor  people  whom  I  sent  away  to-night !  What 
must  they,  who  will  have  short  work  these  two  months, 
and  after  that  machinery-work-,  which  they  fancy  is  taking 
tlie  very  bread  out  of  tlieir  mouths — Avhat  must  they  think 
of  the  master  ?  " 

He  spoke — as  we  rarely  heard  John  speak  :  as  worldly 
cares  and  worldly  injustice  cause  even  the  best  of  men  to 
speak  sometimes. 

"  Poor  people  !  "  he  added,  "  how  can  I  blame  them  ?  I 
was  actually  dumb  before  them  to-night,  when  they  said  I 
must  take  the  cost  of  what  I  do, — they  must  have  bread 
for  their  children.  But  so  must  I  for  mine.  Lord  Luxmore 
is  the  cause  of  all." 

Here  I  heard— or  fancied  I  heard — out  of  the  black 
shadow  behind  the  loom,  a  heavy  sigh.  John  and  Ursula 
were  too  anxious  to  notice  it. 

"  Could  anything  be  done  ?  "  she  asked.  "Just  to  keep 
things  going  till  your  steam-engine  is  ready  ?  Will  it  cost 
much  ?  " 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  347 

'•'^  More  than  I  like  to  think  of.  But  it  must  be  ; — nothing 
venture — nothing  have.  You  and  the  children  are  secure 
anyhow,  that's  one  comfort,  lint  oli,  my  poor  people  at 
Enderley  ! " 

Again  Ursula  asked  if  nothing  could  be  done  ? 

"  Yes — I  did  think  of  one  plan— but — " 

"John,  I  know  what  you  thought  of." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  looked  straight  up  at 
him — eye  to  eye.  Often,  it  seemed  that  from  long  haljit 
they  could  read  one  another's  minds  in  this  way,  clearly  as 
a  book.     At  last  John  said — 

'*  Would  it  be  too  hard  a  sacrifice,  love  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  talk  so  !  We  could  do  it  easily,  by  living 
in  a  plainer  way  ;  by  giving  up  one  or  two  tritles.  Only 
outside  things,  you  know.  Why  need  we  care  for  outside 
things  ?" 

"Why,  indeed  ?"  he  said,  in  a  low,  fond  tone. 

So  I  easily  found  out  how  they  meant  to  settle  the  diffi- 
culty ;  namely,  by  setting  aside  a  jjortion  of  the  annual  in- 
come which  John,  in  his  almost  morbid  anxiety  lest  his 
family  should  take  harm  by  any  possible  non-success  in 
his  business,  had  settled  upon  his  wife.  Three  months  of 
little  renunciations — throe  months  of  the  old  narroAV  way 
of  living,  as  at  Norton  Bury — and  the  poor  people  at  En- 
derley might  have  full  wages,  whether  or  no  tiiere  was  full 
work.  Then  in  our  quiet  valley  there  would  be  no  want,  no 
murmurings,  and,  above  all,  no  blaming  of  the  master. 

They  decided  it  all — in  fewer  words  than  I  have  taken  to 
write  it — it  was  so  easy  to  decide  when  both  were  of  one 
mind. 

"Now,"  said  John,  rising,  as  if  a  load  were  taken  off  his 
breast — "now,  do  what  he  will.  Lord  Luxmore  cannot  do 
me  any  harm." 

"  Husband,  don't  let  us  speak  of  Lord  Luxmore." 

Again  that  sigh — quite  ghostly  in  the  darkness.  They 
heard  it  likewise,  this  time. 

"Who's  there  ?" 

"  Only  I.     Mr.   Halifax — don't  be  angry  with  me." 

It  was  the  softest,  mildest  voice — the  voice  of  one  long 


o4S  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

used  to  oppression  ;  and  the  young  man  Mdiom  Ursula  had 
supposed  to  be  a  Catholic  appeared  from  behind  the  loom. 

"  I  do  not  know  you,  sir.  How  came  you  to  enter  my 
mill  ?  " 

"  I  followed  Mrs.  Halifax.  I  have  often  watched  her  and 
your  children.     But  you  don't  remember  me." 

Yes  ;  when  he  came  underneath  the  light  of  the  one  tal- 
low candle,  we  all  recognized  the  face — more  wan  than  ever 
— with  a  sadder  and  more  hopeless  look  in  the  large  grey 
eyes. 

"  I  am  suprised  to  see  you  here.  Lord  Eavenel." 

"  Hush  !  I  hate  the  very  sound  of  the  name.  I  would 
have  renounced  it  long  ago.  I  would  have  hid  myself  away 
from  him  and  from  the  world,  if  he  would  have  let  me." 

"  He — do  yon  mean  your  father  ?  " 

The  boy — no,  he  was  a  young  man  now,  but  scarcely 
looked  more  than  a  boy — assented  silently,  as  if  afraid  to 
utter  the  name. 

''  Would  not  your  coming  here  dis]3lease  him  ?  "  said 
John,  always  tenacious  of  trenching  a  hair's  breadth  upon 
any  lawful  authority. 

"It  matters  not — he  is  away.  He  has  left  me  these  six 
months  alone  at  Luxmore." 

''Have  you  offended  him?"  asked  Ursula,  who  had 
cast  kindly  looks  on  the  thin  face,  which  perhaps  reminded 
her  of  another — now  for  ever  banished  from  our  sight,  and 
his  also. 

"  He  hates  me  because  I  am  a  Catholic,  and  wish  to  be- 
come a  monk." 

The  youth  crossed  himself,  then  started  and  looked  round, 
in  terror  of  observers.  "You  will  not  betray  me?  You 
are  a  good  man,  Mr.  Halifax,  and  you  spoke  warmly  for 
us.  Tell  me — I  will  keep  your  secret — are  you  a  Catholic 
too  ?  " 

"No,  indeed." 

"  Ah  !  I  hoped  you  were.  But  you  are  sure  you  will  not 
betray  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Halifax  smiled  at  such  a  possibility.  Yet,  in  truth, 
there  was  some  reason  for  the  young  man's  fears ;  since. 


.TOH?f    HALIFAX.  349 

even  in  those  days,  Catholics  were  hunted  down  hoth  by 
law  and  by  public  opinion,  as  virulently  as  Protestant  non- 
conformists. All  who  kept  out  of  the  jiale  of  the  national 
church  were  denounced  as  schismatics,  deists,  atheists — it 
was  all  one. 

"  But  why  ;lo  you  wish  to  leave  the  Avorld  't" 

"  I  am  sick  of  it.  There  never  was  but  one  in  it  I  cared 
for,  or  who  cared  for  me — and  now — Sanda  Maria,  am 
pro  nobis." 

His  lips  moved  in  a  paroxysm  of  ]n-ayer — helpless,  par- 
rot-learnt, Latin  })raver ;  yet,  being  in  earnest,  it  seemed 
to  do  him  good.  The  mother,  as  if  she  heard  in  fancy  that 
pitiful  cry,  wl'.icli  rose  to  my  memory  too, — "  Poor  "William. 
— don't  tell  Wdliam  ! " — turned  and  spoke  to  him  kindly, 
asking  him  if  he  Avould  go  home  with  us. 

He  looked  exceedingly  surprised.  "  I — you  cannot  mean 
it  ?     After  Lord  Luxmore  has  done  you  all  this  evil  ?  " 

'•'  Ts  that  any  reason  why  I  should  not  do  good  to  his  son 
—that  is,  if  1  could  ?     Can  I  ?  " 

The  lad  lifted  up  those  soft  grey  eyes,  and  then  I  remem- 
bered what  his  sister  had  said  of  Lord  Eaveuel's  enthusi- 
astic admiration  of  Mr.  Halifax.  ''Oh,  you  could — you 
could." 

"  But  I  and  mine  are  heretics,  you  know  ! " 

''  I  will  pray  for  you.  Only  let  me  come  and  see  you — 
you  and  your  children.^' 

"  Come,  and  welcome." 

"  Heartilv  welcome,  Lord- " 

"No — not  that  name,  Mrs.  Halifax  ?  Call  me  as  they 
nsed  to  call  me  at  St.  Omer — Brother  Anselmo." 

The  mother  was  half  inclined  to  smile  ;  but  John  never 
smiled  at  any  one's  religious  beliefs,  howsoever  foolish.  He 
held  in  universal  sacredness  that  one  rare  thing — sincerity. 

So  henceforward  "  Brother  Anselmo"  Avas  almost  domes- 
ticated at  Eose  Cottage.  What  would  the  earl  have  said, 
had  a  little  bird  flown  over  to  London  and  told  him  that  his 
only  son,  the  heir-apparent  to  his  title  and  political  opinions, 
was  in  constant  and  open  association — for  clandestine  ac- 
quaintance was  against  all  our  laws  and  rules — with  Johr 


350  ,TOH]Sr   HALIFAX. 

Halifax  tlie  mill-owner,  Jolin  Halifax  the  radical,  as  he  was 
still  called  sometimes  ;  imbibing  principles,  modes  of  life 
and  of  thonght,  which,  to  say  the  least,  were  decidedly  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  the  honse  of  Lnxmore  ! 

Above  all,  what  would  that  noble  parent  have  said,  had 
he  been  av/are  that  this,  his  only  son,  for  whom,  report 
whispered,  he  was  already  planning  a  splendid  marriage — • 
as  grand  in  a  financial  point  of  view  as  that  he  planned  for 
his  only  daughter — that  Lord  Eavenel  was  spending  all  the 
love  of  his  loving  nature  in  the  half -paternal,  half  lover- 
like sentiment  which  a  young  man  Avill  sometimes  lavish  on 
a  mere  child — upon  John  Halifax's  little  blind  daughter, 
Muriel ! 

He  said,  "She  made  him  good" — our  child  of  peace. 
He  would  sit  gazing  on  her  almost  as  if  she  were  his  guard- 
ian angel — his  patron  saint.  And  the  little  maid  in  her 
quiet  way  was  very  fond  of  him  ;  delighting  in  his  com- 
pany when  her  father  was  not  hj.  But  no  one  ever  was  to 
her  like  her  father. 

The  chief  bond  between  her  and  Lord  Eavenel — or  "  An= 
selmo,"  as  he  would  have  us  call  him — was  music.  He 
taught  her  to  play  on  the  organ,  in  the  empty  church  close 
by.  There,  during  the  long  midsummtu"  evenings,  they 
two  would  sit  down  for  hours  in  the  organ-gallery,  while  I 
listened  down  below  ;  hardly  believing  that  such  heavenly 
sounds  could  come  from  those  small  child-fingers  ;  almost 
ready  to  fancy  she  had  called  down  some  celestial  harmo- 
nist to  aid  her  in  playing.  Since,  as  we  used  to  say — l)ut  by 
some  instinct  never  said  now — Muriel  was  so  fond  of 
'^'^  talking  with  the  angels." 

Just  at  this  time,  her  father  saw  somewhat  less  of  her 
than  usual.  He  was  ojjpressed  Avith  business  cares  ;  daily, 
hourly  vexations.  Only  twice  a  week  the  great  water-wheel, 
the  delight  of  our  little  Edwin  as  it  had  once  been  of  his 
father,  might  be  seen  slowly  turning  ;  and  the  water-courses 
along  the  meadows,  with  their  mechanically-forced  chan- 
nels, and  their  pretty  sham  cataracts,  were  almost  always 
low  or  dry.  It  ceased  to  be  a  pleasure  to  walk  in  the  green 
hollow,   between   the  two  grassy   hills,    which  heretofore 


JOHISr   HALIFAX.  351 

Muriel  and  I  had  liked  even  better  tlian  the  Flat.  'Now 
she  missed  the  noise  of  the  water — the  cry  of  the  water- 
hens — the  stirring  of  the  reeds.  Above  all,  she  missed  her 
father,  who  was  too  busy  to  come  out  of  his  mill  to  us, 
and  hardly  ever  had  a  spare  iuinute,  even  for  his  little 
daughter. 

He  was  setting  up  that  wonderful  novelty — a  steam- 
engine.  He  had  already  been  to  Manchester  and  elsewhere, 
and  seen  how  tlic  new  power  was  iipplicd  by  Arkwright, 
Hargreaves,  and  others  ;  his  own  ingenuity  and  meclianical 
kn©wledgo  fiifiiisbed  the  rest.  He  worked  early  and  late — 
often  with  his  OAvn  hands — aided  by  the  men  he  brought 
with  him  from  ^Manchester.  For  it  was  necessary  to  keep 
the  secret — especially  in  our  pi-imitive  valle}^ — until  the 
thing  was  complete.  So  the  ignorant,  simple  mill-iieojile, 
when  they  came  for  their  easy  Saturday's  wages,  only  stood 
and  gaped  at  the  mass  of  iron,  and  the  curiously-shaped 
brickwork,  and  wondered  what  on  earth  "  the  master  "  Wcis 
about  ?  But  he  was  so  thoroughly  the  "  master,"  with  alJ 
his  kindness^  that  no  one  ventured  either  to  question  ry 
interfere. 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

SuMMER  waned.  Already  the  beech-wood  began  to  tnrn 
red,  and  the  little  yellow  autumn  flowers  to  show  themselves 
all  over  the  common,  while  in  the  midst  of  them  looked  up 
the  large  purple  eye  of  the  ground-thistle.  The  mornings 
grew  hazy  and  dewy.  We  ceased  to  take  Muriel  out  with 
us  in  our  slow  walk  along  John's  favorite  "  terrace  "  before 
any  one  else  was  stirring.  Her  father  at  first  missed  her 
sorely,  but  always  kept  repeating  that  "  early  walks  were 
not  good  for  children."  At  last  he  gave  up  the  walk  alto- 
gether, and  used  to  sit  with  her  on  his  knee  in  front  of  the 
cottage  till  breakfast-time. 

After  that,  saying  with  a  kind  of  jealousy  "that  every 
one  of  us  had  more  of  his  little  daughter  than  he,"— he  got 
into  a  habit  of  fetching  her  down  to  the  mill  every  day  at 
noon,  and  carrying  her  about  in  his  arms,  wherever  he  went, 
during  the  rest  of  his  work. 

Many  a  time  I  have  seen  the  rough,  coarse,  blue-handed, 
blue-pinafored  women  of  the  mill  stop  and  look  wistfully 
after  "Master  and  little  blind  miss."  I  often  think  that 
the  quiet  way  in  which  the  Enderloy  mill-people  took  the 
introduction  of  machinery,  and  the  peaceableness  with  which 
they  watched  for  weeks  the  setting  up  of  the  steam-engine, 
was  partly  owing  to  their  strong  impression  of  Mr.  Halifax's 
goodness  as  a  father,  and  the  vague,  almost  supersti- 
tious interest  which  attached  to  the  pale,  sweet  face  of 

Muriel. 

Enderley  was  growing  dreary,  and  we  began  to  anticipate 
the  cosy  fireside  of  Longfield. 

"  The  children  will  all  go  home  looking  better  than  they 
came  :  do  you  not  think  so,  Uncle  Phineas  ?— Especially 

Muriel  ?  " 

To  that  sentence  I  had  to  answer  with  a  vague  assent ; 

352 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  353 

after  wliicli  I  was  fain  to  rise  and  walk  away,  thinking  how 
blind  love  was — all  love  save  mine,  which  had  a  gift  for 
seeing  the  saddest  side  of  things. 

Wlien  I  came  back,  I  found  the  mother  and  daughter 
talking  mysteriously  apart.  I  guessed  what  it  was  about, 
for  I  had  overheard  Ursula  saying  they  had  better  tell  the 
child — it  would  be  "  something  for  her  to  look  forward  to 
— something  to  amuse  her  next  winter." 

"It  is  a  great  secret,  mind,"  the  mother  whispered,  after 
its  communication. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  The  tiny  face,  smaller  than  ever,  I  thought, 
flushed  brightly.  "  But  I  would  much  rather  have  a  little 
sister,  if  you  jdease.  Only" — and  the  chil  1  suddenly  grew 
earnest — "  will  she  be  like  me  ?  " 

"  Possibly  ;  sisters  often  are  alike." 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that ;  but — you  knoAv  ! " '  And  Muriel 
touched  her  own  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  my  daughter.  In  all  things  else  pray 
God  she  may  be  like  you,  Muriel  my  darling — my  child  of 
peace  !  "  said  Ursula,  embracing  her  with  tears. 

After  this  confidence,  of  which  Muriel  was  very  proud, 
and  only  condescended,  upon  gaining  exj^ress  permission, 
to  reconfide  it  to  me,  she  talked  incessantly  of  the  sister  that 
was  coming,  until  "little  Maud" — the  name  she  chose  for 
her — became  an  absolute  entity  in  the  household. 

The  dignity  and  glory  of  being  sole  depositary  of  this 
momentous  fact,  seemed  for  a  time  to  put  new  life — bright 
human  life — into  this  little  maid  of  eleven  years  old.  She 
grew  quite  womanly,  as  it  were  ;  tried  to  help  her  mother 
in  a  thousand  little  ways,  and  especially  by  her  own  solitary 
branch  of  feminine  industry — poor  darling  !  She  set  on  a 
pair  of  the  daintiest  elfin  socks  that  ever  were  knitted.  I 
found  them,  years  after — one  finished,  one  with  the  needles 
(all  rusty)  stuck  through  the  fine  worsted  ball,  just  as  the 
child  had  laid  it  out  of  her  hand.     Ah,  Muriel,  Muriel  ! 

The  father  took  great  delight  in  this  change,  in  her  re- 
srrming  her  simple  work,  and  going  about  constantly  with 
her  mother. 

"  What  a  comfort  she  will  be  to  Ursula  one  day — an 
23 


354  JOHSr    HALIFAX. 

eldest  daughter  always  is.  So  will  she  ;  will  she  not,  Uncle 
Phineas  ?  " 

I  smiled  assentingly.  Alas  I  his  burthens  were  heavy 
enough  !     I  think  I  did  right  to  smile. 

"  We  must  take  her  down  with  us  to  see  the  steam-engine 
first  worked.  I  wish  Ursula  would  have  gone  home  with- 
out waiting  for  to-morrow.  But  there  is  no  fear — my  men 
are  so  quiet  and  good-humored.  What  in  most  mills  has 
been  a  day  of  outrage  and  dread,  is  with  us  quite  a  festival. 
Boys,  shall  you  like  to  come  ?  Edwin,  my  jiractical  lad, 
my  lad  that  is  to  carry  on  the  mills — will  you  promise  to 
hold  fast  by  Uncle  Phineas,  if  I  let  you  see  the  steam-engine 
work  ? '" 

Edwin  lifted  up  from  Ids  slate  bright,  penetrating  eyes. 
He  was  quite  an  old  man  in  his  Avays— wise  even  from  his 
babyhood,  and  quiet  even  when  Guy  snubbed  him  ;  but,  1 
noticed,  he  did  not  come  to  "^  kiss  and  make  friends"  so 
soon  as  Guy.  And  though  Guy  was  much  the  naughtiest, 
we  all  loved  him  best.  Poor  Guy  !  he  had  the  frankest, 
warmest,  tenderest  boy-heart,  always  struggling  to  be  good, 
and  never  able  to  accomplish  it. 

"Father,"  cried  Guy,  "I  want  to  see  the  steam-engine 
move  ;  but  I'll  not  be  a  baby  like  Edwin  ;  1*11  not  hold 
Uncle  Phineas'  hand." 

Hereujion  ensued  one  of  those  summer  storms  which 
sometimes  swept  across  the  family  horizon,  in  the  midst  of 
which  Muriel  and  I  stole  out  into  the  empty  church,  Avhere, 
almost  in  the  dark — which  was  no  dark  to  her — for  a  long 
hour  she  sat  and  played.  By-and-by  the  moon  looked  in, 
showing  the  great  gilt  jiipes  of  the  organ,  and  the  little 
fairy  figure  sitting  below. 

Once  or  twice  she  stooped  from  the  organ-loft  to  ask 
me  where  was  Brother  Anselmo,  who  usually  met  us  in  the 
church  of  evenings,  and  whom  to-night — this  last  niglit 
before  the  general  household  moved  back  to  Longfield — we 
had  fully  expected. 

At  last  he  came,  sat  down  by  me,  and  listened.  She  was 
playing  a  fragment  of  one  of  his  Catholic  masses.  When  it 
ended,  he  called  "  Muriel  ! " 


JOHIS"    HALIFAX.  355 

Her  soft,  glad  answer  came  doAvn  from  the  gallery, 

"  Child,  play  the  '  Miserere  '  I  taught  you/' 

She  obeyed,  making  the  organ  wail  like  a  tormented 
soul.  Truly,  no  tales  I  ever  heard  of  young  Wesley  and 
the  infant  Mozart  ever  surpassed  the  wonderful  playing  of 
our  blind  child. 

"  Now,  the  '  Dies  Ira.' — It  will  come,''  he  muttered, 
*'to  us  all." 

The  child  struck  a  few  notes,  l)c>avy  and  dolorous,  filling 
the  church  like  a  thunder-cloud,  then  suddenly  left  off,  and 
opening  the  flute-stop,  burst  into  altogether  different 
music. 

"  That  is  Handel — 'I  know  that  my  Kedeemer  liveth.'"' 

Exquisitely  she  played  it,  tlie  clear  treble  notes  seeming 
to  utter  like  a  human  voice,  the  very  words  : 

"I  know  lliaf  in  If  Redeaner  liveth.  He  shall  stand  at 
the  latter  dan  upon  the  earth:' 

"And  tliimcjli  ivorms  destroy  this  hody,  yet  in  my  flesh 
shall  I  see  Ood." 

With  that  she  ceased. 

''  More,  more  ! ''  Ave  both  cried. 

"  Not  noAV — no  more  noAV." 

And  Ave  heard  her  shutting  up  the  stojts  and  closing  the 
organ-lid. 

"  But  my  little  Muriel  has  not  finished  her  tune  ?" 

"  She  Avill  some  day,"  said  the  child. 

So  she  came  doAvn  from  the  organ-loft,  feeling  her  way 
along  the  aisles  ;  and  Ave  all  Avent  out  together,  locking  the 
church-door. 

Lord.Eavenel  Avas  rather  sad  that  night  :  he  Av^as  going 
away  from  Ijuxmore  for  some  time.  We  guessed  why — 
because  the  earl  Avas  coming.  Bidding  us  good-bye,  he 
said,  mournfully,  to  his  little  pet :  "  I  Avish  lAverenot  leav- 
ing you.     Will  you  remember  me,  Muriel  ?  " 

"  Stoop  doAvn  ;  I  Avant  to  see  you." 

This  Avas  her  phrase  for  a  way  she  had  of  passing  her  ex- 
trem^ely  sensitive  fingers  over  the  faces  of  those  she  liked. 
After  which  she  always  said  she  "  saw  "  them. 

"  Yes  ;  I  shall  remember  you." 


356  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  And  love  me  ?  " 

"And  love  you.  Brother  Anselmo/* 

He  kissed,  not  her  cheek  or  mouth,  but  her  little  child- 
hands,  reverently,  as  if  she  had  beeii  the  saint  he  wor- 
shipped, or,  perhaps,  the  woman  v/hom  afterwards  he  would 
learn  to  adore.     Then  he  went  away. 

"  Truly,''  said  the  mother,  in  an  amused  aside  to  me,  as 
with  a  kind  of  motherly  pride  she  watched  him  walk  hastily 
down  between  those  chestnut-trees,  known  of  old — "  truly, 
time  flies  fast.  Things  begin  to  look  serious — eh,  father  ? 
Five  years  hence  we  shall  have  that  young  man  falling  in 
love  with  Muriel.'' 

But  John  and  I  looked  at  the  still  soft  face,  half  a  child's 
and  half  an  angel's. 

"  Hush  ! "  he  said,  as  if  Ursula's  fancy  were  profanity  ; 
then  eagerly  snatched  it  up  and  laughed,  confessing  how 
angry  he  should  be  if  anybody  dared  to  "  fall  in  love  "  with 
Muriel. 

Next  day  was  the  one  fixed  for  the  trial  of  the  new  steam- 
engine  ;  which  trial  being  successful,  we  were  to  start  at 
once  in  a  post-chaise  for  Longfield  ;  for  the  mother  longed 
to  be  at  home,  and  so  did  we  all. 

There  was  rather  a  dolorous  good-bye,  and  much  lament- 
ing from  good  IMrs.  Tod,  who,  her  own  bairns  grown  up, 
thought  there  were  no  children  worthy  to  compare  with 
our  children.  .  And  truly,  as  the  three  boys  scamjiered 
down  the  road — their  few  regrets  soon  over,  eager  for  any- 
thing new — three  finer  lads  could  not  be  seen  in  the  whole 
county. 

Mrs.  Halifax  looked  after  them  proudly — mother-like, 
she  gloried  in  her  sons  ;  while  John,  walking  slowly,  and 
assuring  Mrs.  Tod  over  and  over  again  that  we  should  all 
come  back  next  summer,  went  down  the  steep  hill,  carry- 
ing, hidden  under  many  wraps  and  nestled  close  to  his 
warm  shoulder,  his  little  frail  winter-rose — his  only 
daughter. 

In  front  of  the  mill  we  found  a  considerable  crowd  ;  for 
the  time  being  ripe,  Mr.  Halifax  had  made  public  the  fact 
that  he  meant  to  work  his  looms  by  steam,  the  only  v/ay  in 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  357 

wliicli  he  coukl  curry  on  the  mill  at  all.  The  announce- 
ment had  been  received  with  great  surprise  and  remark- 
able quietness,  both  by  his  own  work-jjcople  ar.d  all  along 
the  Enderley  valley.  Still  there  was  the  usual  amount  of 
contemptuous  scepticism,  incident  on  any  new  experiment. 
Men  vv'ere  peering  about  the  locked  door  of  the  engine- 
room  with  a  surly  curiosity  ;  and  one  village  oracle,  to 
prove  how  impossiljle  it  was  that  such  a  thing  as  steam 
could  work  anything,  had  taken  the  trouble  to  light  a  fire 
in  the  yard  and  set  thereon  his  wife's  best  tea-kettle,  which, 
as  she  snatched  angrily  away,  scalded  liim  slightly,  and 
caused  him  to  limp  away  swearing,  a  painful  illustration  of 
the  adage,  that  "a  little  knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing." 

"  j\[ake  way,  my  good  people,"  said  ^Iv.  Halifax  ;  and  he 
crossed  the  mill-yard,  his  wife  on  his  arm,  followed  by  an 
involuntary  nuirmur  of  respect. 

"  Hebe  a  fine  fellow,  the  master  ;  he  sticks  at  nothing," 
was  the  comment  heard  made  upon  him  by  one  of  his  peo- 
ple, and  probably  it  expressed  the  feeling  of  the  rest. 
There  are  few  things  which  give  a  man  more  power  over  his 
fellows  than  the  thoroughly  English  quality  of  daring. 

Perhaps  this  was  the  secret  why  John  had  as  yet  passed 
safely  through  the  crisis  which  had  been  the  destruction  of 
so  many  niill-cnvners,  namely,  the  introduction  of  a  power 
which  the  mill-])eople  were  convinced  would  ruin  hand- 
labor.  Or  else  tlie  folk  in  our  valley,  out  of  their  very  prim- 
itiveness,  hud  more  faith  in  the  nuister  ;  for  certainly,  as 
John  passed  through  the  small  crowd,  there  was  only  one 
present  who  raised  the  old  fatal  cry  of  ''Down  with  ma- 
chinery ! " 

"  Who  said  that  ?  " 

At  the  master's  voice — at  the  flash  of  the  master's  eye — 
the  little  knot  of  work-people  drew  back,  and  the  malcon- 
tent, whoever  he  was,  shrunk  into  silence. 

Mr.  Halifax  walked  past  them,  entered  his  mill,  and  un- 
locked the  door  of  the  room  which  he  had  turned  into  an 
engine-room,  and  where,  along  with  the  two  men  he  had 
brought  from  Manchester,  he  had  been  busy  almost  night 
and  day  for  this  week  past,  in  setting  up  his  machinery. 


358  JOHN^    HALIFAX. 

They  worked — as  tlie  Manchester  fellows  said  they  had 
often  been  obliged  to  work — under  lock  and  key. 

''  Your  folk  be  queer  'uns,  Mr.  Halifax.  They  say 
there's  six  devils  inside  on  her,  theer." 

And  the  man  pointed  to  the  great  boiler  which  had  been 
built  up  in  an  out-house^,  adjoining. 

"  Six  devils,  say  they  ? — Well,  I'll  be  Maister  Michael 
Scot — eh,  Phineas  ? — and  make  my  devils  work  hard." 

He  laughed,  but  he  was  much  excited.  He  went  over, 
piece  by  piece,  the  complicated  but  delicate  machinery ; 
rubbed  here  and  there  at  the  brass-work,  which  shone  as 
bright  as  a  mirror  ;  then  stepped  back,  and  eyed  it  with 
pride,  almost  with  affection, 

"  Isn't  it  a  pretty  thing  ? — If  only  I  have  it  set  up  right 
— if  it  will  but  work." 

His  hands  shook — his  cheeks  were  Ijurning — little  Edwin 
came  peering  about  at  his  knee  ;  but  he  pushed  the  child 
hastily  away  ;  then  he  found  some  slight  fault  with  the 
machinery,  and  while  the  workmen  rectified  it,  stood  watch- 
ing them,  breathless  with  anxiety.  His  wife  came  to  his 
side. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me — don't,  Ursula.  If  it  fails,  I  am 
ruined." 

"  John  !  " — She  just  whispered  his  name,  and  the  soft, 
firm  fold  of  her  fingers  closed  round  his,  strengthening, 
cheering.     Her  husband  faintly  smiled. 

"  Here  1 " — He  unlocked  the  door,  and  called  to  the 
people  outside.  "  Come  in,  two  of  you  fellows,  and  see 
how  my  devils  work.  Now  then  !  Boys,  keej)  out  of  the 
way;  my  little  girl  " — his  voice  softened— '*  my  pet  will 
not  be  frightened  ?     Now,  my  men — ready  ?  " 

He  opened  the  valve. 

With  a  strange  noise,  that  made  the  two  Enderley  men 
spring  back  as  if  the  six  devils  were  really  let  loose  upon 
them,  the  steam  came  rushing  into  the  cylinder.  There 
was  a  slight  motion  of  the  piston-rod. 

'•'All's  right !  it  will  work  !" 

No,  it  stopped. 

John  drew  a  deep  breath. 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  359 

It  went  on  again,  beginning  to  move  slowly  up  and 
down,  like  the  strong  right  arm  of  some  automaton  giant. 
Greater  and  lesser  cog-wheels  caught  up  the  motive  power, 
revolving  slowly  and  majestically,  and  with  steady,  regular 
rotation,  or  whirling  round  so  fast,  you  could  hardly  see 
that  they  stirred  at  all.  Of  a  sudden,  a  soul  had  been  put 
into  that  wonderful  creature  of  nuin's  making,  that  inert 
mass  of  wood  and  metal,  mysteriously  combined.  The 
monster  was  alive. 

Speechless,  John  stood  watching  it.  Their  trial  over,  his 
energies  collapsed  ;  he  sat  down  by  his  wife's  side,  and  tak- 
ing Muriel  on  his  knee,  bent  his  head  over  hers. 

''Is  all  right,  father  ?"  the  child  whispered. 

"All  quite  right,  my  own." 

"You  said  you  could  do  it.  and  you  have  done  it,"  cried 
his  wife,  her  eyes  glowing  with  triumph,  her  head  erect 
and  proud. 

John  dropped  his  lower,  lower  still.  "  Yes,"  he  mur- 
mured :  "yes,  thank  God." 

Then  he  opened  the  door,  and  let  all  the  people  in  to  see 
the  wondrous  sight. 

They  crowded  in  by  dozens,  staring  about  in  blank  won- 
der, gaping  curiosity,  ill-disguised  alarm.  John  took  pains 
to  explain  the  machinery,  stage  by  stage,  till  some  of  the 
more  intelligent  caught  up  the  principle,  and  made  merry 
at  tlie  notion  of  "devils."  But  they  all  looked  with  great 
awe  at  the  master,  as  if  he  were  something  more  tlian  man. 
They  listened  open-mouthed  to  every  word  he  uttered, 
cramming  the  small  engine-room  till  it  was  sc  ircely  possible 
to  breathe,  but  keeping  at  a  respectful  distance  from  the 
iron-armed  monster,  that  went  working,  working  on,  as  if 
ready  and  able  to  work  on  to  everlasting. 

John  took  his  wife  and  children  out  into  the  oj)en  air. 
Muriel,  who  had  stood  for  the  last  few  minutes  by  her 
father's  side,  listening  with  a  pleased  look  to  the  monoto- 
nous regular  sound,  like  the  breathing  of  the  demon,  was 
unwilling  to  go. 

"  I  am  very  glad  I  was  with  you  to-day, — very  glad; 
father,"  she  kept  saying. 


360  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

He  said,  as  often — twice  as  often — that  next  summer, 
when  he  came  back  to  Enderley,  she  shoukl  be  with  him  at 
the  mills  every  day,  and  all  day  over,  if  she  liked. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  hasten  as  quickly 
and  merrily  as  possible  to  our  well-beloved  Longfield. 

Waiting  for  the  post-chaise,  Mrs.  Halifax  and  the  boys 
sat  down  on  the  bridge  over  the  defunct  and  silenced 
waterfall,  on  the  muddy  steps  of  which,  where  the  stream 
used  to  dash  musically  over,  weeds  and  long  grasses, 
mingled  with  the  drooping  water-fern,  were  already  begin- 
ning to  grow. 

"  It  looks  desolate,  but  we  need  not  mind  that  now," 
said  Mrs.  Halifax. 

"  No,"  her  husband  answered.  '^Steam-power  once  ob- 
tained, I  can  apply  it  in  any  way  I  choose.  My  people  will 
not  hinder  ;  they  trust  me — they  like  me." 

"^  And,  perhaj)s,  are  just  a  little  afraid  of  you.  No  mat- 
ter, it  is  a  wholesome  fear.  I  should  not  like  to  have  mar- 
ried a  man  wdiom  nobody  was  afraid  of." 

John  smiled  ;  he  was  looking  at  the  horseman  riding 
towards  us  along  the  high  road.  "  I  do  believe  that  is 
Lord  Luxmore.  I  wonder  whether  he  has  heard  of  my 
steam-engine.  Love,  will  you  go  back  into  the  mill  or 
not?" 

"Certainly  not."  The  mother  seated  herself  on  the 
bridge,  her  boys  around  her  ; — John  avouched,  with  an  air 
like  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi,  or  like  the  Highland  woman 
who  trained  one  son  after  another  to  fight  and  slay  their 
enemy — their  father's  murderer. 

"  Don't  jest,"  said  Ursula.  She  was  much  more  excited 
than  her  husband.  Two  angry  spots  burnt  on  her  cheeks 
when  Lord  Luxmore  came  up,  and,  in  j)assing,  bowed. 

Mrs.  Halifax  returned  it,  haughtily  enougli.  But  at  the 
moment  a  loud  cheer  broke  out  from  the  mill  hard  by,  and 
"Hurrah  for  the  master!"  "Hurrah  for  Mr.  Halifax!" 
was  distinctly  heard.     The  mother  smiled,  right  proudly. 

Lord  Luxmore  turned  to  his  tenant — they  might  have 
been  on  the  best  terms  imaginable  from  his  bland  air, 

"What  is  that  rather  harsh  noise  I  hear,  ilr.  Halifax  ?" 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  361 

"  It  is  my  men  clieeriiig  me." 

"  Oh,  how  charming  !  so  grateful  to  the  feelings.  And 
why  do  they  cheer  you,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

John  briefly  told  him,  sj)eaking  with  perfect  courtesy  as 
lie  was  addressed. 

"  And  this  steam-engine — I  have  heard  of  it  before — will 
greatly  advantage  your  mills  ?  " 

"  It  will,  my  lord.  It  renders  me  quite  independent  of 
your  stream,  of  which  the  fountains  at  Luxmore  can  now 
have  the  full  monopoly." 

It  would  not  have  been  human  nature,  if  a  spice  of  harm- 
less malice — even  triumph — had  not  sparkled  in  John's  eye, 
as  he  said  this.  He  was  walking  by  the  horse's  side,  as 
Lord  Luxmore  had  politel}^  requested  him. 

They  went  a  little  way  up  the  hill  together,  out  of  sight 
of  Mrs.  Halifax,  who  Avas  busy  putting  the  two  younger 
boys  into  the  chaise. 

"  I  did  not  quite  understand.  Would  you  do  me  the 
favor  to  repeat  your  sentence  ?  " 

"■  Merely,  my  lord,  that  your  cutting  off  of  the  water- 
course has  been  to  me  one  of  the  greatest  advantages  I  ever 
had  in  my  life  ;  for  which,  whether  meant  or  not,  allow  me 
to  thank  you." 

The  earl  looked  full  in  John's  face,  without  answering  ; 
then  spurred  his  horse  violently.  The  animal  started  off, 
full  speed. 

"The  children.     Good  God — the  children  !" 

Guy  was  in  the  ditch-bank,  gathering  flowers — but  Muriel 
— for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  we  had  forgotten  ■Muriel. 

She  stood  in  the  horse's  path — the  helpless,  blind  child. 
The  next  instant,  she  was  knocked  down. 

I  never  heard  a  curse  on  John  Halifax's  lips  but  once — 
that  once.  Lord  Luxmore  heard  it  too.  The  image  of  the 
frantic  father,  snatching  up  his  darling  from  under  the 
horse's  heels,  must  have  haunted  the  earl's  good  memory 
for  many  a  da}'. 

He  dismounted,  saying,  anxiously,  "  I  hope  the  little  girl 
is  not  injured  ?     It  was  accident — you  see — pure  accident." 

But  John  did  not  hear  ;  he  would  scarcely  have  heard 


362  JOHN^    HALIFAX. 

heaven's  thunder.  He  knelt  with  the  child  in  his  arms  by 
a  little  runnel  in  the  ditch-bank.  When  the  water  touched 
her,  she  opened  her  eyes,  with  that  wide,  momentary  stare 
so  painful  to  behold. 

"  My  little  darling  ! " 

Muriel  smiled,  and  nestled  to  him.  "  Indeed  I  am  not 
hurt,  dear  father." 

Lord  Luxmore,  standing  by,  seemed  much  relieved,  and 
again  pressed  his  apologies. 

No  answer. 

"  Go  away,"  sobbed  out  Guy,  shaking  both  his  fists  in 
the  nobleman's  face.  "'  Go  awa}- — or  I'll  kill  you — wicked 
man  !     I  would  have  done  it  if  you  had  killed  my  sister." 

Lord  Luxmore  laughed  at  the  boy's  fury — threw  him  a 
guinea,  which  Guy  threw  back  at  him  with  all  his  might, 
and  rode  placidly  away. 

"  Guy — Guy — "  called  the  faint,  soft  voice  which  had 
more  poAver  over  him  than  any  other,  except  his  mother's, 
"  Guy  must  not  be  angry.     Father,  don't  let  him  be  angry." 

But  the  father  was  wholly  occupied  in  Muriel — looking 
in  her  face,  and  feeling  all  her  little  fragile  limbs,  to  make 
sure  that  in  no  way  she  was  injured. 

It  appeared  not ;  though  the '  escape  seemed  almost  mira- 
culous. John  recurred,  with  a  kind  of  trembling  tenacity, 
to  the  old  saying  in  our  house,  that  "  nothing  ever  harmed 
Muriel." 

"  Since  it  is  safe  over,  and  she  can  walk — you  are  sure 
you  can,  my  pet  ? — I  think  we  will  not  say  anything  about 
this  to  the  mother  ;  at  least,  not  till  we  reach  Longfield." 

But  it  was  too  late.  There  was  no  deceiving  the  mother. 
Every  change  in  every  face  struck  her  instantaneously. 
The  minute  we  rejoined  her,  she  said — 

''John,  something  has  happened  to  Muriel." 

Then  he  told  her  ;  making  as  light  of  the  accident  as  he 
could  ;  as,  indeed,  for  the  first  ten  minutes  we  all  believed, 
until  alarmed  by  the  extreme  pallor  and  silence  of  the  child. 

Mrs.  Halifax  sat  down  by  the  roadside,  bathed  Muriel's 
forehead  and  smoothed  her  hair  ;  but  still  the  little  curls 
lay  motionless  against  the  mother's  breast, — and  still  to 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  363 

every  question  she  only  answered  "  that  she  was  not 
hurt." 

All  this  while  the  post-chaise  was  waiting. 

"  What  must  be  done  ?"  I  enquired  of  Ursula  ;  for  it  was 
no  use  asking  John  anything. 

"  We  must  go  back  again  to  Enderley/'  she  said,  de- 
cidedly. 

So,  giving  Muriel  into  her  father's  arms,  she  led  the  way, 
and,  a  melancholy  procession,  we  again  ascended  the  hill 
to  Rose  Cottage  door. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Without  any  discussion,  our  plans  were  tacitly  changed 
■ — no  more  was  said  about  going  home  to  dear  Longfield, 
Every  one  felt,  though  no  one  trusted  it  to  words,  that  the 
journey  was  impossible.  For  Muriel  lay,  day  after  day,  on 
her  little  bed  in  an  upper  chamber,  or  was  carried  softly 
down  in  the  middle  of  the  day  by  her  father,  never  com- 
plaining, but  never  attempting  to  move  or  talk.  When 
we  asked  her  if  she  felt  ill,  she  always  answered,  "  Oh,  no  ! 
only  so  very  tired."     Nothing  more. 

"'  She  is  dull,  for  want  of  the  others  to  play  with  her. 
The  boys  should  not  run  out  and  leave  their  sister  alone," 
said  John,  almost  sharjily,  when  one  bright  morning  the 
lads'  merry  voices  came  down  from  the  Flat,  while  he  and 
I  were  sitting  by  Muriel's  sofa  in  the  still  parlor. 

"  Father,  let  the  boys  play  without  me,  please.  Indeed 
I  do  not  mind.     I  had  rather  lie  quiet  here." 

"■  But  it  is  not  good  for  my  little  girl  always  to  be  quiet, 
and  it  grieves  father." 

"  Does  it  ?  "  She  roused  herself,  sat  ujoright,  and  began 
to  move  her  limbs,  but  wearily. 

"  That  is  right,  my  darling.  Now  let  me  see  how  well 
you  can  walk." 

Muriel  slipped  to  her  feet  and  tried  to  cross  the  room, 
catching  at  table  and  chairs — now,  alas  !  not  only  for  guid- 
ance, but  actual  support.  At  last  she  began  to  stagger, 
and  said,  half  crying, — 

"  I  can't  walk,  I  am  so  tired.  Oh,  do  take  me  in  your 
arms,  dear  father." 

Her  father  took  her,  looked  long  in  her  sightless  face, 
then  buried  his  against  her  shoulder,  saying  nothing.  But 
I  think  in  that  moment  he  too  saw,  glittering  and  bare, 
the  long-veiled  Hand  which,  for  this  year  past,  /  had  seen 

364 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  365 

stretched  out  of  the  hnmntablc  heavens,  claiming  that 
which  was  Its  own.  Ever  after,  there  was  discernible  in 
John's  countenance  a  something  which  all  the  cares  of  his 
anxious  yet  happy  life  had  never  written  there — an  inefface- 
able record,  burnt  in  with  fire. 

He  held  her  in  his  arms  all  day.  He  invented  all  sorts 
of  tales  and  little  amusements  for  her  ;  and  when  she  was 
tired  of  these,  he  let  her  lie  in  his  bosom  and  sleep.  After 
her  bed-time,  he  asked  me  to  go  out  with  him  on  the 
Flat. 

It  was  a  misty  night.  The  very  cows  and  asses  stood  up 
large  and  spectral  as  shadows.  There  was  not  a  single  star 
to  be  seen. 

We  took  our  walk  along  the  terrace  and  came  back 
again,  without  exchanging  a  single  word.  Then  John  said 
hastily — 

"  I  am  glad  her  mother  was  so  busy  to-day — too  busy  to 
notice." 
'"  Yes,"  I  answered  ;  unconnected  as  his  words  were. 

"  Do  you  understand  me,  Phineas  ?  Her  mother  must 
not  on  any  account  be  led  to  imagine,  or  to  fear — anything. 
You  must  not  look  as  you  looked  this  morning.  You  must 
not,  Phineas." 

He  spoke  almost  angrily.  I  ansAvered  in  a  few  quieting 
words.  We  were  silent,  until  over  the  common  we  caught 
sight  of  the  light  in  Muriel's  window.  Then  I  felt  rather 
than  heard  the  father's  groan. 

"  Oh,  God  !  my  only  daughter — m}^  dearest  child  !  " 

Yes,  she  was  the  dearest.  I  knew  it.  Strange  mystery, 
that  He  should  so  often  take,  by  death  or  otherwise,  the 
dearest — always  the  dearest.  Strange,  that  He  should  hear 
us  cry — us  writhing  in  the  dust,  "  0  !  Father,  anything, 
anything  but  this  ! "  But  our  Father  answers  not ;  and 
meanwhile  the  desire  of  our  eyes,  be  it  a  life,  a  love,  or  a 
blessing — slowly,  slowly  goes — is  gone.  And  yet  we  have 
to  believe  in  our  Father.  Perhaps  of  all  trials  to  human 
faith  this  is  the  sorest.  Thanks  be  to  God  if  He  puts  into 
our  hearts  such  love  towards  Him,  that  even  while  He  slays 
us  we  can  trust  Him  still. 


366  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Tliis  father — tins  broken-hearted  eartlily  father,  could. 

When  we  sat  at  the  supper-table,  Ursula,  John,  and  I,  the 
children  being  all  in  bed,  no  one  could  have  told  that  there 
was  any  shadow  over  us,  moi-e  than  the  sadly-familiar  pain 
of  the  darling  of  the  house  being  ''not  so  strong  as  she 
used  to  be." 

"  But  I  think  she  will  be,  John.  AVe  shall  have  her  quite 
about  again,  before — " 

The  mother  stopped,  slightly  smiling.  It  was,  indeed, 
an  especial  mercy  of  heaven  which  put  that  unaccountable 
blindness  before  her  eyes,  and  gave  her  other  duties  and 
other  cares  to  intercept  the  thought  of  IMuriel.  While, 
from  morning  till  night,  it  was  the  incessant  secret  care  of 
her  husband,  myself,  and  good  Mrs.  Tod,  to  keep  her  out 
of  her  little  daughter's  sight,  and  prevent  her  mind  from 
catching  the  danger  of  one  single  fear. 

Thus,  within  a  week  or  two,  the  mother  lay  down  cheer- 
fully ujDon  her  couch  of  pain,  and  gave  another  child  to  the 
household — a  little  sister  to  j\furiel. 

Muriel  was  the  first  to  whom  the  news  was  told.  Her 
father  told  it.  His  natural  joy  and  thankfulness  seemed 
for  the  moment  to  efface  every  other  thought. 

"  She  is  come,  darling  !  little  Maud  is  come.  I  am  very 
rich — for  I  have  two  daughters  now."' 

"Muriel  is  glad,  father."  Bivt  she  showed  her  gladness 
in  a  strangely  quiet,  meditative  way,  unlike  a  child — unlike 
even  her  own  self. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  joet  ?  " 

"  That — though  father  has  another  daughter,  I  hope  he 
will  remember  the  first  one  sometimes." 

'^^  She  is  jealous  !"  cried  John,  in  the  curious  delight  with 
which  he  always  detected  in  her  any  weakness,  any  fault, 
which  brought  her  down  to  the  safe  level  of  humanity„ 
"  See,  Uncle  Phineas,  our  Muriel  is  actually  jealous." 

But  Muriel  only  smiled. 

That  smile — so  serene — so  apart  from  every  feeling  or 
passion  appertaining  to  us  who  are  "of  the  earth,  earthy,'' 
smote  the  father  to  the  heart's  core. 

He  sat  down  by  her,  and  she  crept  up  into  his  arms. 


'  JOHN    HALIFAX.  367 

"  What  day  is  it,  father?" 

"The  first  of  December." 

''  I  am  glad.  Little  Maud's  birthday  will  be  in  the  same 
month  as  mine.^' 

"  Bnt  you  came  in  the  snow,  Muriel,  and  now  it  is  warm 
and  mild." 

"  There  will  be  snow  on  my  liirthday,  though.  There 
always  is.  The  snow  is  fond  of  me,  fatlier.  It  would  like 
me  to  lie  down  and  be  all  covered  over,  so  that  you  could 
not  find  me  anywhere." 

I  heard  John  try  to  echo  her  weak,  soft  laugh. 

"  This  month  it  will  be  eleven  years  since  I  was  born, 
will  it  not,  father  ?  " 

' '  Yes,  my  darling. " 

"  What  a  long  time  !  Then,  when  my  little  sister  is  as 
old  as  I  am,  I  shall  be — that  is,  I  should  have  been — a 
woman  grown.  Fancy  me  twenty  years  old,  as  tall  as 
mother,  wearing  a  gown  like  her,  talking  and  ordering,  and 
busy  about  the  house.  How  funny  ! "  And  she  laughed 
again.  ''Oh  !  no,  father,  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  had  bettei 
remain  always  your  little  ^luriel,  weak  and  small,  who  liked 
to  creep  close  to  you,  and  go  to  sleep  in  this  Avay." 

She  ceased  talking — very  soon  she  was  sound  asleep. 
But— the  father  ! 

Muriel  faded,  though  slowly.  Sometimes  slie  was  so 
well  for  an  hour  or  two,  that  the  Hand  seemed  drawn  back 
into  the  clouds,  till  of  a  sudden  we  discerned  it  there. 

One  Sunday — it  was  ten  days  or  so  after  Maud's  birth,  and 
the  weather  had  been  so  bitterly  cold  that  the  mother  had 
herself  forbidden  our  bringing  jMuriel  to  the  other  side  of 
the  house  Avhere  she  and  the  baby  lay — ^Irs.  Tod  was  lay- 
ing the  dinner,  and  John  stood  at  the  window  playing  with 
his  three  boys. 

He  turned  abruptly,  and  saw  all  the  chairs  placed  round 
the  table — all  save  one. 

"Where  is  Muriel's  chair.  Mrs.  Tod  ?" 

'■'  Sir,  she  says  she  feels  so  tired  like,  she'd  rather  not 
come  down  to-day,"  answered  Mrs.  Tod,  hesitatingly. 

'^'  Not  come  down  ?" 


368  JOHis^    HALIFAX. 

"  Maybe  better  not,  Mr.  Halifax.  Look  out  at  tlie  snow. 
It'll  be  warmer  for  tlie  dear  child  to-morrow." 

"^  You  are  right.  Yes,  I  had  forgotten  the  snow.  She 
shall  come  down  to-morrow." 

I  caught  Mrs.  Tod's  eyes  ;  they  were  running  over.  She 
was  too  wise  to  speak  of  it — but  she  knew  the  truth  as  well 
as  we. 

This  Sunday — I  remember  it  well — was  the  first  day  we 
sat  down  to  dinner  with  the  one  ]3lace  vacant. 

For  a  few  days  longer,  her  father,  every  evening  when 
he  came  in  from  the  mills,  persisted  in  carrying  her  down, 
as  he  had  said,  holding  her  on  his  knee  during  tea,  then 
amusing  her  and  letting  the  boys  amuse  her  for  half-an- 
hour  or  so  before  bed-time.  But  at  the  week's  end  even 
this  ceased. 

When  Mrs.  Halifax,  quite  convalescent,  was  brought 
triumphantly  to  her  old  place  at  our  hajjpy  Sunday  dinner- 
table,  and  all  the  boys  came  pressing  about  her,  vieing 
which  should  get  most  kisses  from  little  sister  Maud — she 
looked  round,  surprised  amidst  her  smiling,  and  asked, 

"Where  is  Muriel?" 

'^She  seems  to  feel  this  bitter  weather  a  good  deal," 
John  said.  "And I  thought  it  better  she  should  not  come 
down  to  dinner." 

"Ko,"  added  Guy,  wondering  and  dolefully,  "sister  has 
not  been  down  to  dinner  with  us  for  a  great  many  days." 

The  mother  started ;  looked  first  at  her  husband,  and 
then  at  me. 

"  Why  did  nobody  tell  me  this  ?  " 

"Love — there  was  nothing  new  to  be  told." 

''  Has  the  child  had  any  illness  that  I  do  not  know  of  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Has  Dr.  Jessop  seen  her  ?  " 

"  Several  times." 

"  Mother,"  said  Guy,  eager  to  comfort,  for  naughty  as 
he  was  sometimes,  he  was  the  most  tenderhearted  of  all  the 
boys,  especially  to  Muriel  and  to  his  mother — "  sister  isn't 
ill  a  bit,  I  know.  She  was  laughing  and  talking  Avith  me 
just  now — saying  she  knows  she  could  carry  babv  a  great 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  369 

deal  better  than  I  could.     She  is  as  merry  as  ever  she  can 
be." 

The  mother  kissed  him  in  her  quick  eager  way — the  sole 
indication  of  that  maternal  love  which  was  in  her  ahiiost  a 
passion.     She  looked  more  satisfied. 

Nevertheless,  when  Mrs.  Tod  came  into  the  parlor,  she 
rose  and  put  little  Maud  into  her  arms. 

"Take  baby,  please,  while  I  go  up  to  see  Muriel." 

"Don't — now  don't,  please,  Mrs.  Halifax,"  cried  ear- 
nestly the  good  woman. 

Ursula  turned  very  pale.  "  They  ought  to  have  told 
me,"  she  muttered  ;  "  John,  you  must  let  me  go  and  see  my 
child." 

"Presently — j)resently — Guy,  run  up  and  play  with 
Muriel.  Phineas,  take  the  others  with  you.  You  shall  go 
up-stairs  in  one  minute,  my  darling  wife  ! " 

He  turned  us  all  out  of  the  room,  and  shut  the  door. 
How  he  told  her  that  which  it  was  necessary  she  should 
know — that  which  Dr.  Jossop  himself  had  told  us  this  very 
morning — how  the  father  and  mother  bore  this  first  open 
revelation  of  their  unutterable  grief — for  ever  remained  un- 
known. 

I  was  sitting  by  Muriel's  bed,  Avhen  they  came  up-stairs. 
The  darling  lay  listenhig  to  her  brother,  who  was  squatted 
on  her  pillow,  making  all  sorts  of  funny  talk.  There  was 
a  smile  on  her  face  ;  she  looked  quite  rosy  :  I  hoped  Ursula 
might  not  notice,  just  for  the  time  being,  the  great  change 
the  last  few  weeks  had  made. 

But  she  did — who  could  ever  blindfold  a  mother  ?  For 
a  moment  I  saw  her  recoil — then  turn  to  her  husband  with 
a  dumb,  piteous,  desperate  look,  as  though  to  say,  "Help 
me — my  sorrow  is  more  than  I  can  bear  ! " 

But  Muriel,  hearing  the  step,  cried  with  a  joyful  cry, 
-'  Mother  !  it's  my  mother  ! " 

The  mother  folded  her  to  her  breast. 

Muriel  shed  a  tear  or  two  there — in  a  satisfied,  peaceful 
way  ;  the  mother  did  not  weep  at  all.  Her  self-command, 
so  far  as  speech  went,  was  miraculous.  For  her  look — but 
then  she  knew  the  child  was  blind. 

24 


370  JOHlsr   HALIFAX. 

"  Now/'  she  said,  "  my  pet  will  be  good,  and  not  cry  ? 
It  would  do  lier  harm.     We  must  be  very  happy  to-day." 

"  Oh,  yes."  Then,  in  a  fond  whisper,  "  Please,  I  do 
so  want  to  see  little  Maud  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  "  with  an  absent  gaze. 

"  My  little  sister,  Maud — Maud  that  is  to  take  my  place 
and  be  everybody's  darling  now." 

"  Hush,  Muriel,"  said  the  father,  hoarsely. 

A  strangely  soft  smile  broke  over  her  face— and  she  was 
silent. 

The  new  baby  was  carried  up-stairs,  proudly,  by  Mrs. 
Tod,  all  the  boys  following.  Quite  a  levee  Avas  held  round 
the  bed,  Avhere,  laid  close  beside  her,  her  Aveak  hands  being 
guided  over  the  tiny  face  and  form,  Muriel  first  "  saw  "  her 
little  sister.  She  Avas  greatly  pleased.  AVith  a  grave  el- 
der-sisterly air  she  felt  all  over  the  baby-limbs,  and  Avhen 
Maud  set  up  au  indignant  cry,  began  hushing  her  Avith  so 
quaint  an  imitation  of  motherliness,  that  we  were  all 
amused. 

"  You'll  be  a  capital  nurse  in  a  month  or  tAvo,  my  jjretty  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Tod. 

Muriel  only  smiled.  "  How  fat  she  is  ! — and  look  how 
fast  her  fingers  take  hold  !  And  her  head  is  so  round,  and 
her  hair  feels  so  soft — as  soft  as  my  doves'  necks  at  Long- 
field.     What  color  is  it  ?     Like  mine  ?  " 

It  was  ;  nearly  the  same  shade.  Maud  bore,  the  mother 
declared,  the  strongest  likeness  to  Muriel. 

"  I  am  so  glad.  But  these — "  touching  her  eyes  anx- 
iously. 

"  No — my  darling.  Not  like  you  there,"  was  the  Ioav 
answer. 

"  I  am  very  glad.  Please,  little  Maud,  don't  cry — it's 
only  sister  touching  you.  Hoav  Avide  open  your  eyes  feel  ! 
I  wonder," — Avith  a  thoughtful  jDause — "  I  wonder  if  you 
can  see  me.     Little  Maud,  I  sliould  like  you  to  see  sister." 

"  She  does  see,  of  course  ;  how  she  stares  !"  cried  Guy. 
And  then  Edwin  began  to  argue  to  the  contrary,  protest- 
ing that  as  kittens  and  puppies  could  not  see  at  first,  he 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  371 

believed  little  babies  did  not  :  wliic'li  produced  a  warm 
altercation  among  the  children  gathered  round  tlie  bed, 
while  Muriel  lay  back  quietly  on  her  pillow,  witli  her  little 
sister  fondly  hugged  to  her  breast. 

The  father  and  mother  looked  on.  It  was  such  a  picture 
■ — these  five  darlings,  these  children  Avhich  God  had  given 
them — a  group  perfect  and  complete  in  itself,  like  a  root 
of  daisies,  or  a  brancli  of  ripening  fruit,  which  not  one 
could  be  added  to,  or  taken  from — 

'No.  I  was  sure,  from  the  jjarents'  smile,  thattliis  once, 
Mercy  had  blinded  their  eyes,  so  that  they  saw  notliiug 
beyond  the  present  moment. 

The  children  were  wildly  happy.  All  the  afternoon  they 
kept  up  their  innocent  little  games  by  Muriel's  bed-side  ; 
she  sometimes  sharing,  sometimes  listening  apart.  Only 
once  or  twice  came  that  wistful,  absent  look,  as  if  she 
were  listening  jiartly  to  us,  and  })artly  to  th.ose  we  heard 
not  ;  as  if  through  the  wide  open  orbs  the  soul  were  strain- 
ing at  sights  wonderful  and  new — sights  unto  Avhich  Jier 
eyes  were  the  clear-seeing,  and  ours  the  blank  and  blind. 

It  seems  strange  now,  to  rememl)er  that  Sunday  after- 
noon, and  how  merry  we  all  were  ;  how  we  drank  tea  in 
the  qvieer  bed-room  at  the  top  of  the  house  ;  and  how  after- 
wards Muriel  went  to  sleep  in  the  twilight,  with  baby 
Maud  in  her  arms.  Mrs.  Halifax  sat  beside  the  little  bed, 
a  sudden  blazing  up  of  the  lire  showing  the  intentness  of 
hev  watch  over  these  two,  her  eldest  and  youngest,  fast 
asleep  ;  their  breathing  so  soft,  one  hardly  knew  which 
was  frailest,  the  life  slowly  fading  or  the  life  but  just  begun. 
Their  breaths  seemed  to  mix  and  mingle,  and  the  two  faces, 
lying  close  together,  to  grow  into  a  strange  likeness  each  to 
each.     At  least  we  all  fancied  so. 

Meantime  John  kept  his  boys  as  still  as  mice,  in  the 
broad  window-seat,  looking  across  the  white  snowy  sheet, 
with  black  bushes  peering  out  here  and  there,  to  the  fea- 
thery beech-wood,  over  the  tops  of  which  the  new  moon 
was  going  down.  Such  a  little  young  moon  !  and  how 
peacefully — nay,  smilingly — she  set  among  the  snows  ! 

The  children  watched  her  till  the  very  last  minute,  when 


373  JOHK   HALIFAX. 

Guy  startled  the  deep  quiet  of  the  room  by  exclaiming— 
''There,  she's  gone." 

''Hush!" 

"No,  mother,  I  am  awake,"  said  Muriel.  "Who  is 
gone,  Guy  ?  " 

"  The  moon — such  a  pretty  little  moon." 

"Ah,  Maud  will  see  the  moon  some  day."  She  droj)ped 
her  cheek  down  again  beside  the  baby  sister,  and  was  silent 
once  more. 

This  is  the  only  incident  I  remember  of  that  peaceful, 
heavenly  hour. 

Maud  broke  upon  its  quietude  by  her  waking  and  wail- 
ing ;  and  Muriel  very  unwillingly  let  the  little  sister  go. 

"  I  wish  she  might  stay  witli  me — just  this  one  night, 
and  to  morrow  is  my  birth-day.  Please,  mother,  may  she 
stay  ?  " 

"  We  will  both  stay,  my  darling.  I  shall  not  leave  you 
again." 

"I  am  so  glad,"  and  once  more  she  turned  round,  as  if 
to  go  to  sleep. 

"Are  you  tired,  my  pet  ?"  said  John,  looking  intently 
at  her. 

"No,  father." 

"  Shall  I  take  your  brothers  down  stairs  ?" 

"Not  yet,  dear  father." 

"  What  would  you  like,  then  ?" 

"  Only  to  lie  here,  this  Sunday  evening,  among  you  all." 

He  asked  her  if  she  would  like  him  to  read  aloud  ?  as  he 
generally  did  on  Sunday  evenings. 

"  Yes,  please  ;  and  Guy  will  come  and  sit  quiet  on  the 
bed  beside  me  and  listen.  That  will  be  pleasant.  Guy 
was  always  very  good  to  his  sister — ahvays." 

"I  don't  know  that,"  said  Guy,  in  a  conscience-stricken 
tone.  "  But  I  mean  to  be  when  I  grow  a  big  man — that 
I  do." 

No  one  answered.  John  opened  the  large  Book — the 
Book  he  had  taught  all  his  children  to  long  for  and  to  love 
— and  read  out  of  it  their  favorite  history  of  Joseph  and 
his  brethren.     The  mother  sat  by  him  at  the  fireside,  rock- 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  373 

ing  Maud  softly  on  her  knees.  Edwin  and  Walter  settled 
themselves  on  the  hearth-rug,  with  great  eyes  intently 
fixed  on  their  father.  From  behind  him  the  candle-light 
fell  softly  down  on  the  motionless  figure  in  the  bed,  whose 
hand  he  held,  and  whose  face  he  every  now  and  then  turned 
to  look  at ;  then,  satisfied,  continued  to  read. 

In  the  reading,  his  voice  had  a  fatherly,  flowing  calm — 
as  Jacob's  might  have  had,  when  "  the  children  were  ten- 
der," and  he  gathered  them  all  round  him  under  the  palm- 
trees  of  Succoth — years  before  he  cried  unto  the  Lord  that 
bitter  cry — (which  John  hurried  over  as  he  read) — "  If  1 
am  bereaved  of  my  children,  I  avi  bereaved." 

For  an  hour  nearly,  we  all  sat  thus — with  the  wind 
coming  up  the  valley,  howling  in  the  beech-wood,  and 
shaking  the  casement  as  it  passed  outside.  AVithin,  the 
only  sound  was  the  father's  voice.  This  ceased  at  last :  he 
shut  the  Bible,  and  put  it  aside.  The  group — that  last 
perfect  household  picture — was  broken  up.  It  melted 
away  into  things  of  the  past,  and  became  only  a  picture 
for  evermore. 

"  Now,  boys,  it  is  full  time  to  say  good-night.  There, 
go  and  kiss  your  sister." 

"  Which  ?  "  said  Edwin,  in  his  funny  way.  "  We've  got 
two  now  ;  and  I  don't  know  which  is  the  biggest  baby." 

"  I'll  thrash  you  if  you  say  that  again,"  cried  Guy. 
"  Which,  indeed  ?  Maud  is  but  the  baby.  Muriel  will  be 
always  'sister.'" 

"  Sister"  faintly  laughed,  as  she  answered  his  fond  kiss 
— Guy  was  often  thought  to  be  her  favorite  brother. 

"Now,  off  with  you,  boys ;  and  go  down  stairs  quietly — 
mind,  I  say  quietly." 

They  obeyed — that  is,  as  literally  as  boy-nature  can  obey 
such  an  admonition.  But  an  hour  after,  I  heard  Guy  and 
Edwin  a.rguing  vociferously  in  the  dark  on  the  respective 
merits  and  future  treatment  of  their  two  sisters,  Muriel 
and  Maud. 

John  and  I  sat  up  late  together  that  night.  He  could 
not  rest,  even  though  he  told  me  he  had  left  the  mother 
and  her  two  daughters  as  cosy  as  a  nest  of  wood-pigeons. 


374  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

We  listened  to  the  wild  night,  till  it  had  almost  howled 
itself  away ;  then  our  fire  went  out,  and  we  came  and  sat 
over  the  last  faggot  in  Mrs.  Tod's  kitchen — the  only  De- 
bateable  Land.  We  began  talking  of  the  long-ago  time, 
and  not  of  this  time  at  all.  The  vivid  present — never  out 
of  either  mind  for  an  instant — we  in  our  conversation  did 
not  touch  upon,  by  at  least  ten  years.  Nor  did  we  give 
expression  to  a  thought  which  strongly  oppressed  me,  and 
which  I  once  or  twice  fancied  I  could  detect  in  John  like- 
wise— how  very  like  this  night  seemed  to  the  night  when 
Mr.  March  died  ;  the  same  silencness  in  the  house — the 
same  windy  whirl  without — the  same  blaze  of  the  wood- 
fire  on  the  same  kitchen-ceiling. 

More  than  once  I  could  almost  have  deluded  myself  that 
I  heard  the  faint  moans  and  footsteps  overhead — that  the 
staircase  door  would  open,  and  we  should  see  there  Miss 
March,  in  her  white  gown,  and  her  pale,  steadfast  look. 

"  I  think  the  mother  seemed  very  well  and  calm  to-night,'^ 
I  said,  hesitatingly,  as  we  were  retiring. 

'*'  She  is.     God  help  her— and  us  all ! " 

*' He  will." 

This  was  all  we  said. 

He  went  up-stairs  the  last  thing,  and  brought  down  word 
that  mother  and  children  were  all  sound  asleej?. 

"I  think  I  may  leave  them  until  daylight  to-morrow. 
And  now.  Uncle  Phineas,  go  you  to  bed,  for  you  look  as 
tired  as  tired  can  be." 

I  went  to  bed  ;  but  all  night  long  I  had  disturbed  dreams, 
in  which  I  pictured  over  and  over  again,  first  the  night 
when  Mr.  March  died — then  the  niglit  at  Longfield,  when 
the  little  white  ghost  had  crossed  by  my  bed's  foot,  into 
the  room  where  Mary  Baines'  dead  boy  lay.  And  continu- 
ally, towards  morning,  I  fancied  I  heard  through  my  win- 
dow, which  faced  the  church,  the  faint,  distant  sound  of 
the  organ,  as  when  Muriel  used  to  play  it. 

Long  before  it  was  light  I  rose.  As  I  passed  the  boys' 
room,  Guy  called  out  to  me — 

"^^  Halloa  !  Uncle  Phineas,  is  it  a  fine  morning  ? — for  1 
v^ant  to  go  down  into  the  wood  and  get  a  lot  of  beech- 


JOHlSr    HALIFAX.  375 

nuts  and  fir-cones  for  sister.  It's  her  birth-day  to-day,  you 
know."  I 

It  was,  for  her.  But  for  us — Oh,  Muriel,  our  darling- 
darling  child  ! 

Let  me  hasten  over  the  story  of  that  morning,  for  my 
old  heart  quails  before  it  still. 

John  went  early  to  the  room  up-stairs.  .It  was  very  still. 
Ursula  lay  calmly  asleep,  with  baby  Maud  in  her  bosom  ; 
on  her  other  side,  with  eyes  wide  open  to  the  daAdight,  lay, 
—that  v/hich  for  more  than  ten  years  we  had  been  used  to 
call  "  blind  Muriel."     She  saw,  now. 

^  ^  ^  •I'  T"  T" 

The  same  day,  at  evening,  we  three  were  sitting  in  the 
parlor  ;  we  elders  only — it  was  past  the  children's  bed-time. 
Grief  had  spent  itself  dry  ;  we  were  all  very  quiet.  Even 
Ursula,  when  she  came  in  from  fetching  the  boy's  candle, 
as  had  always  been  her  custom,  and  though  afterwards  I 
thought  I  had  heard  her  going  up-stairs,  likewise  from 
habit — where  there  was  no  need  to  bid  any  mother's  good- 
night now — even  Ursula  sat  in  the  rocking-chair,  nursing 
Maud,  and  trying  to  still  her  crying  with  a  little  foolish 
baby-tune  that  had  descended  as  a  family  lullaby  from  one 
to  the  other  of  the  whole  five — how  sad  it  sounded  ! 

John — who  sat  at  the  table,  shading  the  light  from  his 
eyes,  an  open  book  lying  before  him,  of  which  he  never 
turned  one  i^age — looked  up  at  her. 

"  Love,  you  must  not  tire  yourself.     Give  me  the  child." 

"  No,  no  !  Let  me  keep  my  baby — she  comforts  me  so." 
A.nd  the  mother  burst  into  uncontrollable  weeping. 

John  shut  his  book  and  came  to  her.  He  supported  her 
on  his  bosom,  saying  a  soothing  word  or  two  at  intervals, 
or,  when  the  paroxysm  of  her  anguish  was  beyond  all 
bounds,  supporting  her  silently  till  it  had  gone  by  ;  never 
once  letting  her  feel  that,  bitter  as  her  sorrow  was,  his  was 
heavier  than  hers. 

Thus,  during  the  whole  of  the  day,  had  he  been  the  stay 
and  consolation  of  the  household.  For  himself — the  father's 
grief  was  altogether  dumb. 

At  last,  Mrs.  Halifax  became  more  composed.     She  sat 


376  JOHTSr   HALIFAX. 

beside  her  husband,  her  hand  in  his^,  neither  speaking,  but 
gazing,  as  it  were,  into  the  face  of  this  their  great  sorrow, 
and  from  thence  up  to  the  face  of  God.  They  felt  that 
He  could  help  them  to  bear  it  ;  ay,  or  anything  else  that  it 
was  His  will  to  send — if  they  might  thus  bear  it,  to- 
gether. 

We  all  three  sat  thus,  and  there  had  not  been  a  sound  in 
the  parlor  for  ever  so  long,  when  Mrs.  Tod  opened  the 
door  and  beckoned  me. 

"He  will  come  in — he's  crazy-like,  poor  fellow!  He 
has  only  just  heard " 

She  broke  off  with  a  sob.  Lord  Eavenel  pushed  her 
aside  and  stood  at  the  door.  AVe  had  not  seen  him  since 
the  day  of  that  innocent  jest  about  his  "  falling  in  love  " 
with  Muriel.  Seeing  us  all  so  quiet,  and  the  parlor  looking 
as  it  always  did  when  he  used  to  come  of  evenings — the 
young  man  drew  back,  amazed. 

"■  It  is  not  true  !  No,  it  could  not  be  true  !"  he  mut- 
tered. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  father.     "  Come  in." 

The  mother  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  Yes,  come  in. 
You  were  very  fond  of " 

Ah,  that  name  ! — now  nothing  but  a  name  !  For  a  little 
while  we  all  wept  sore. 

Then  we  told  him — it  was  Ursula  who  did  it  chiefly — 
all  particulars  about  our  darling.  She  told  him,  but  calml}^, 
as  became  one  on  whom  had  fallen  the  utmost  sorrow  and 
crowning  consecration  of  motherhood — that  of  yielding  up 
her  child,  a  portion  of  her  own  being,  to  the  corruj^tion  of 
the  grave — of  resigning  the  life  which  out  of  her  own  life 
had  been  created,  unto  the  Creator  of  all. 

Surely,  distant  and  peculiar  from  every  other  grief,  every 
other  renunciation,  must  be  that  of  a  woman  who  is  thus 
chosen  to  give  her  very  flesh  and  blood,  the  fruit  of  her 
own  womb,  unto  the  Lord  ! 

This  dignity,  this  sanctity,  seemed  gradually  to  fall  upon 
the  mourning  mother,  as  she  talked  about  her  lost  one  ; 
repeating  often — ' '  I  tell  you  this,  because  you  were  so  fond 
of  Muriel." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  377 

He  listened  silently.  At  length  lie  said,  "  I  want  to  see 
Muriel." 

The  mother  lit  a  candle,  and  he  followed  her  up-stairs. 

Just  the  same  homely  room — half-bedchamber,  half-nur- 
sery— the  same  little  curtainless  bed  where,  for  a  week  past, 
we  had  been  accustomed  to  see  the  wasted  figure  and  small 
pal^  face  lying,  in  smiling  quietude,  all  day  long. 

It  lay  there  still.  In  it,  and  in  the  room,  was  hardly  any 
change.  One  of  Walter's  playthings  was  in  a  corner  of  tlio 
window-sill,  and  on  the  chest  of  drawers  stood  the  nosegay 
of  Christmas  roses  which  Guy  had  brought  for  his  sister 
yesterday  morning.  Nay,  her  shawl — a  white,  soft,  furry 
shawl,  that  she  was  fond  of  wearing — remained  still  hang- 
ing up  behind  the  door.  One  could  almost  fancy  the  little 
maid  had  just  been  said  "  good-night  "  to,  and  left  to  dream 
the  childish  dreams  on  her  nursery  pillow,  where  the  small 
head  rested  so  peacefully,  with  that  pretty  babyish  night- 
cap tied  over  the  pretty  curls. 

There  she  was,  the  child  who  had  gone  out  of  the  number 
of  our  children — our  earthly  children — for  ever. 

Her  mother  sat  down  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  her  father  at 
its  foot,  looking  at  her.  Lord  Ravenel  stood  by,  motion- 
less ;  then  stooping  down,  he  kissed  the  small  marble  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye,  my  little  Muriel  !" 

And  he  left  tlie  room  abruptly,  in  such  an  anguish  of 
grief  that  the  mother  rose  and  followed  him. 

John  went  to  the  door  and  locked  it,  almost  with  a  sort  of 
impatience  ;  then  came  back  and  stood  by  his  darling,  alone. 
Me  he  never  saw — no,  nor  anything  in  the  world  except 
that  little  face,  even  in  death  so  strangely  like  his  own. 
The  face  which  had  been  for  eleven  years  the  joy  of  his 
heart,  the  very  apple  of  his  eye. 

For  a  long  time  he  remained  gazing,  in  a  stupor  of  silence, 
then  sinking  on  his  knees,  he  stretched  out  his  arms  across 
the  bed,  with  a  bitter  cry — 

"  Come  back  to  me,  my  darling,  my  first-born  !  Come 
back  to  me,  ]\Iuriel,  my  little  daughter — my  own  little 
daughter  ! " 

But  thou  wert  with  the  angels,  Muriel — Muriel  ! 


kt' 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


We  went  home,  leaving  all  that  was  mortal  of  our  darling 
sleeping  at  Enderley  underneath  the  snows. 

For  twelve  years  after  then,  we  lived  at  Longfield  ;  in 
such  unbroken,  uneventful  peace,  that  looking  back  seems 
like  looking  back  over  a  level  sea,  whose  leagues  of  tiny 
ripples  make  one  smooth  glassy  plain. 

Let  me  recall,  as  the  first  wave  that  rose,  ominous  of 
change, — a  certain  spring  evening,  when  Mrs.  Halifax  and 
I  were  sitting,  as  was  our  wont,  under  the  walnut-tree. 
The  same  old  walnut-tree,  hardly  a  bough  altered,  though 
many  of  its  neighbors  and  kindred  had  grown  from  sap- 
lings into  trees — even  as  some  of  us  had  grown  from  chil- 
dren almost  into  young  men. 

"  Edwin  is  late  home  from  Norton  Bury,"  said  Ursula. 

"So  is  his  father." 

'^  No — this  is  just  John's  time.  Hark  !  there  are  the 
carriage-wheels  ! " 

For  My.  Halifax,  a  prosjDerous  man  now,  drove  daily  to 
and  from  his  mills,  in  as  tasteful  an  equij^age  as  any  of  the 
country  gentry  between  here  and  Enderley. 

His  wife  went  down  to  the  stream  to  meet  him,  as  usual, 
and  they  came  up  the  field-path  together. 

Both  were  changed  from  the  John  and  Ursula  of  whom  I 
last  wrote.  She,  active  and  fresh-looking  still,  but  settling 
into  that  fair  largeness  which  is  not  unbecoming  a  lady 
of  middle-age,  he,  inclined  to  a  slight  stoop,  with  the  lines 
of  his  face  more  sharply  defined,  and  the  hair  wearing 
away  off  his  forehead  up  to  the  crown.  Tliough  still  not 
a  grey  thread  was  discernible  in  the  crisp  locks  at  the  back, 
which  successively  five  little  ones  had  pulled,  and  played 
with,  and  nestled  in  ;  not  a  sign  of  age,  as  yet,  in  ' '  father's 

curls." 

378 


JOHN^    HALIFAX.  379 

As  soon  as  he  had  spoken  to  me,  he  looked  round  as  usual 
for  his  children,  and  asked  if  the  boys  and  Maud  would  be 
home  to  tea  ? 

"  I  think  Guy  and  Walter  never  do  come  home  in  time 
when  they  go  over  to  the  Manor-house." 

"  They^re  young — let  them  enjoy  .themselves,"  said  the 
father,  smiling.  "And  you  know,  love,  of  all  our  -fine' 
friends,  there  are  none  you  so  heartily  approve  of  as  the 
Oldtowers." 

These  were  not  of  the  former  race.  Good  old  Sir  Ralph 
had  gone  to  his  rest,  and  Sir  Herljert  reigned  in  his  stead  ; 
— Sir  Herbert,  who  in  his  dignified  gratitude  never  forgot 
a  certain  election  day,  when  he  first  made  the  personal 
acquaintance  of  Mr.  Halifax.  The  JVfanor-house  family 
brought  several  other  "  county  families  "  to  our  notice,  or 
us  to  theirs.  These  when  John's  fortunes  grew  rajjiilly — 
as  many  another  fortune  grew,  in  the  beginning  of  the 
thirty  years'  peace,  when  luiknown  petty  manufacturers 
first  rose  into  merchant  princes  and  (cotton  lords — these 
gentry  made  a  perceptible  distinction,  often  amusing  enough 
to  us,  between  John  Halifax,  the  tanner  of  Norton  Bury, 
and  Mr.  Halifax,  the  prosperous  owner  of  Enderley  Mills. 
Some  of  them,  too,  were  clever  enough  to  discover,  what  a 
pleasant  and  altogether  "visitable"  lady  was  Mrs.  Halifax, 
daughter  of  the  late  Mr.  ilarch,  a  governoi'  in  the  West 
Indies,  and  cousin  of  Mr.  lirithwood  of  the  Mythe.  But 
Mrs.  Halifax,  with  quiet  tenacity,  altogether  declined  be 
ing  visited  as  anything  but  Mrs.  Halifax,  wife  of  John 
Halifax,  tanner,  or  mill-owner,  or  whatever  he  might  be. 
All  honors  and  all  civilities  that  did  not  come  through  him, 
and  with  him,  were  utterly  valueless  to  her. 

To  this  her  peculiarity  was  added  another  of  John's  own, 
namely,  that  all  his  life  he  had  been  averse  to  vrhat  is  called 
"  society  "  ;  had  eschewed  '-'  acquaintances,"  and — but 
most  men  might  easily  count  upon  their  fingers  the  number 
of  those  who,  during  a  life-time,  are  found  worthy  of  the 
sacred  name  of  "friend."  Consequently,  our  circle  of  as- 
sociations was  far  more  limited  than  that  of  many  families 
holding  an  equal  position  with   us — on  which  circumstance 


380  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

our  neighbors  commented  a  good  deal.  But  little  we  cared, 
uo  more  than  we  had  cared  for  the  chit-cliat  of  Norton 
Bury.  Our  whole  hearts  were  bound  up  within  our  own 
home — our  happy  Longfield. 

"I  do  think  this  place  is  growing  prettier  than  ever," 
said  John, when,  tea  being  over — a  rather  quiet  meal,  with- 
out a  single  child — we  elders  went  out  again  to  the  walnut- 
tree  bench.  "  Certainly,  prettier  than  ever  ;  "  and  his  eye 
wandered  over  the  quaint,  low  house,  all  odds  and  ends — 
for  nearly  every  year  something  had  been  built,  or  some- 
thing pulled  down  ;  then  crossing  the  smooth  bit  of  lawn, 
Jem  AYatkins'  special  pride,  it  rested  on  the  sloping  field, 
yellow  with  tall  buttercups,  wavy  with  growing  grass.  "  Let 
me  see — how  long  have  we  lived  here  ?  Pliineas,  you  are 
the  one  for  remembering  dates.  What  year  was  it  we 
came  to  Longfield  ?" 

"Eighteen  hundred  and  twelve.     Thirteen  years  ago." 


"  Ah,  so  long 


}j 


"  Not  too  long,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  earnestly.  "I  hope 
we  may  end  our  days  here.     Do  not  you,  John  ?  " 

He  paused  a  little  before  answering.  "  Yes,  I  wish  it ; 
but  I  am  not  sure  how  far  it  Avould  be  right  to  do  it." 

"•  We  will  not  open  that  subject  again,"  said  the  mother, 
uneasily.  "I  thought  we  had  all  made  up  our  minds  tluit 
little  Longfield  was  a  thousand  times  pleasanter  than  Beecli- 
wood,  grand  as  it  is.  But  John  thinks  he  never  can  do 
enough  for  his  people  at  Enderley." 

"  Not  that  alone,  love.  Other  reasons  combined.  Do 
you  know,  Pliineas,"  he  continued,  musingl}^,  as  he  watched 
the  sun  set  over  Leckington  Hill — "sometimes  I  fancy  my 
life  is  too  easy — that  I  am  not  a  wise  steward  of  the  riches 
that  have  multiplied  so  fast.  By  fifty,  a  man  so  blest  as  I 
have  been,  ought  to  have  done  something  of  real  use  in 
the  world — and  I  am  forty-five.  Once,  I  hoped  to  have 
done  wonderful  things  ere  I  was  forty-five.  But  somehow, 
the  desire  faded." 

His  wife  and  I  were  silent.  We  both  knew  the  truth  ; 
that  calm  as  had  flowed  his  outer  existence,  in  which  was 
omitted  not  one  actual  duty,  still,  for  these  twelve  years. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  381 

all  the  high  aims  which  make  the  glory  and  charm  of  life 
as  duties  make  its  strengtli,  all  the  active  energies  and 
noble  ambitions  which  especially  belong  to  the  prime  of 
manhood,  in  him  had  been,  not  dead  perlia])s,  but  sleeping. 
Sleeping,  beyond  the  power  of  any  human  voice  to  waken 
them,  under  the  daisies  of  a  child's  grave  at  Enderley. 

I  know  not  if  tliis  was  right — but  it  was  scarcely  un- 
natural. In  that  heart,  which  loved  as  few  men  love,  and 
remembered  as  few  men  remember — so  deep  a  wound  could 
never  be  thoroughly  healed.  A  certain  something  in  him 
seemed  different  ever  after,  as  if  a  portion  of  the  fatlicr's 
own  life  had  been  taken  away  with  Muriel,  and  lay  buried 
in  the  little  dead  bosom  of  his  first-born,  his  dearest 
child. 

"You  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  tenderly — "you  for- 
get, John,  how  much  you  have  been  doing,  and  intend  to 
do.  What  with  your  improvements  at  Enderley,  and  your 
Catholic  Emancipation — your  Abolition  of  Slavery  and 
your  Parliamentary  Reform — why,  there  is  hardly  any 
scheme  for  good,  jmblic  or  private,  to  which  you  do  not 
lend  a  helping  hand." 

"  A  helping  purse,  perhaps,  which  is  an  easier  thing, 
much." 

"  I  will  not  have  you  blaming  yourself.  Ask  Phineas, 
there — our  household  Solomon." 

"  Thank  you,  Ursula,"  said  I,  submitting  to  the  not 
rare  fortune  of  being  loved  and  laughed  at. 

"  Uncle  Phineas,  what  better  could  John  have  done  in 
all  these  years,  than  look  after  his  mills,  and  educate  his 
three  sons  ?" 

"  Have  them  educated,  rather,"  corrected  he,  sensitive 
over  his  own  painfully-gained  and  limited  acquirements. 
Yet  this  feeling  had  made  him  doubly  careful  to  give  his 
boys  every  possible  advantage  of  study,  short  of  sending 
them  from  home,  to  which  he  had  an  invincible  objection. 
And  three  finer  lads,  or  better  educated,  there  could  not 
be  found  in  the  whole  county. 

"I  think,  John,  Guy  has  quite  got  over  his  fancy  of 
going  to  Cambridge  with  Ralph  Oldtower." 


382  JOHlSr   HALIFAX. 

"  Yes  :  college  life  would  not  have  done  for  Guy,'^  said 
the  father,  thoughtfully. 

"  Hush  !  we  must  not  talk  about  them,  for  here  come 
the  children." 

It  was  now  a  mere  figure  of  speech  to  call  them  so, 
though,  in  their  home-talk,  loving  simplicity,  they  would 
neither  have  been  ashamed  nor  annoyed  at  the  epithet — 
these  two  tall  lads,  who  in  the  dusk  looked  as  man-like  as 
their  father. 

"  Where  is  your  sister,  boys  ?" 

"  Maud  stopped  at  the  stream  with  Edwin,"  answered 
Guy,  rather  carelessly.  His  heart  had  kejit  his  childish 
faith  ;  the  youngest,  pet  as  she  was,  was  never  anything  to 
him  but  "little  Maud."  One — whom  the  boys  still  talked 
of,  softly  and  tenderly,  in  fireside  evening  talks,  when  the 
winter  winds  came  and  the  snow  was  falling — one  only 
was  ever  spoken  of  by  Guy  as  "  sister." 

Maud,  or  Miss  Halifax,  as  from  the  first  she  was  naturally 
called — as  naturally  as  our  lost  darling  was  never  called 
anything  else  than  Muriel — came  up,  hanging  on  Edwin's 
arm,  which  she  was  fond  of  doing,  both  because  it  hap- 
pened to  be  the  only  arm  low  enough  to  suit  her  childish 
stature,  and  because  she  was  more  especially  "  Edwin^s 
girl,"  and  had  been  so  always.  She  had  grown  out  of  the 
likeness  that  we  longed  for  in  her  cradle  days,  or  else  we 
had  grown  out  of  the  perception  of  it ;  for  thougli  the 
external  resemblance  in  hair  and  complexion  still  remained, 
nothing  could  be  more  unlike  in  spirit  than  this  sprightly 
elf,  at  once  the  plague  and  pet  of  the  family — to  our 
Muriel. 

"  Edwin's  girl "  stole  away  with  him,  merrily  chattering. 
Guy  sat  down  beside  his  mother,  and  slipped  his  arm 
round  her  waist.  They  still  fondled  her  with  a  child-like 
simplicity — these  her  almost  grown-up  sons  ;  who  had 
never  been  sent  to  school  for  a  day,  and  had  never  learned 
from  other  sons  of  far  dilferent  mothers,  that  a  young 
man's  chief  manliness  ought  to  consist  in  despising  the 
tender  charities  of  home. 

"  Guy,  you  foolish  boy  I "  as  she  took  his  cap  ofl^  and 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  383 

pushed  back  his  hair,  trying  not  to  lonk  proud  of  his  hand- 
some face,  "  what  have  you  been  doing  all  day  ?  " 

"Making  myself  agreeable,  of  course,  mother." 

"  That  he  has,"  corroborated  Walter,  whose  great  object 
of  hero-worshijT  was  his  eldest  Ijrotlier.  "  He  talked  witli 
Lady  Oldtower,  and  he  saiig  with  Miss  Oldtower  and  Miss 
Grace.     IS'ever  was  there  such  a  fellow  as  our  Guy." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  his  mother,  while  Guy  only  laughed, 
too  accustomed  to  this  family  admiration  to  be  much  dis- 
concerted or  harmed  tliereby. 

"  When  does  Ralph  return  to  Cambridge  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.  He  is  going  to  leave  college,  and  be  off  to 
help  the  Greeks.  Father,  do  you  know  everybody  is  join- 
ing the  Greeks  ?  Even  Lord  Isyron  is  off  with  the  rest. 
I  only  wish  I  were." 

"  Heaven  forbid  I  "  muttered  the  mother. 

"^  Why  not  ?  I  should  have  made  a  capital  soldier,  and 
liked  it  too,  bettor  than  anything." 

"  Better  than  being  my  right  hand  at  the  mills,  and  your 
mother's  at  home  ? — Better  than  growing  up  to  be  our 
eldest  son,  our  comfort  and  our  hope  ? — I  think  not,  Guy." 

"•  You  are  right,  father,"  was  the  answer,  Avitli  an  uneasy 
look.  For  this  description  seemed  less  what  Guy  was,  than 
what  we  desired  him  to  be.  With  his  easy,  happy  temper, 
generous  but  uncertain,  and  his  showy,  brilliant  parts,  he 
was  not  nearly  so  much  to  be  depended  on  as  the  grave 
Edwin,  who  was  already  a  thorough  man  of  business,  and 
plodded  between  Enderley  mills  and  a  smaller  one  which 
had  taken  the  place  of  the  flour  mill  at  Norton  Bury,  with 
indomitable  perseverance. 

Guy  fell  into  a  brown  study,  not  unnoticed  by  those  anx- 
ious eyes,  which  lingered  oftener  upon  his  face  than  on  that 
of  any  of  her  sons.  Mrs.  Halifax  said,  in  her  quick,  deci- 
sive way,  that  it  was  "  time  to  go  in." 

So  the  sunset  picture  outside  changed  to  the  home-group 
within  ;  the  mother  sitting  at  her  little  table,  where  the 
tall  silver  candlestick  shed  a  subdued  light  on  her  work- 
basket,  that  never  was  empty,  and  her  busy  fingers,  that 
never  were  still.     The  father  sat  beside  her ;  he  kept  his 


384  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

old  habit  of  liking  to  have  her  close  to  him  ;  ay,  even  though 
he  was  falling  into  the  middle-aged  comforts  of  an  arm-chair 
and  newspaper.  There  he  sat,  sometimes  reading  aloud, 
or  talking ;  sometimes  lazily  watching  her,  with  silent, 
loving  eyes,  that  saw  beauty  in  his  old  wife  still. 

The  young  folk  scattered  themselves  about  the  room. 
Guy  and  Walter  at  the  unshuttered  window — we  had  a 
habit  of  never  hiding  our  home-light — were  looking  at  the 
moon,  and  laying  bets,  softo  voce,  upon  how  many  minutes 
she  would  be  in  climbing  over  the  oak  on  the  top  of  One- 
tree  Hill.  Edwin  sat,  reading  hard — his  shoulders  up  to 
his  ears,  and  his  fingers  stuck  through  his  hair,  developing 
the  whole  of  his  broad,  knobbed,  knotted  forehead,  where, 
Maud  declared,  the  wrinkles  had  already  begun  to  show. 
For  Mistress  Maud  herself,  she  flitted  about  in  all  direc- 
tions, interrupting  everything,  and  doing  nothing. 

"Maud,"  said  her  father,  at  last,  "I  am  afraid  you  give 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  Uncle  Phineas." 

Uncle  Phineas  tried  to  soften  the  fact,  but  the  little  lady 
was  certainly  the  most  trying  of  his  pupils.  Her  mother 
she  had  long  escaped  from,  for  the  advantage  of  both.  For, 
to  tell  the  truth,  while  in  the  invisible  atmosphere  of  moral 
training  the  mother's  influence  was  invaluable,  in  the  minor 
branch  of  lesson-learning,  there  might  have  been  found 
many  a  better  teacher  than  Ursula  Halifax.  So  the 
children's  education  Avas  chiefly  left  to  me  ;  other  tutors 
succeeding  as  was  necessary  ;  and  it  had  just  begun  to  be 
considered  whether  a  lady  governess  ought  not  to  "  finish" 
the  education  of  Miss  Halifax.  But  always  at  home.  Not 
for  all  the  knowledge  and  all  the  accomjilishments  in  the 
world,  would  these  parents  have  suffered  either  son  or 
daughter — living  souls  entrusted  them  by  the  Divine 
Father — to  be  brought  up  anywhere  out  of  their  own  sight, 
out  of  the  shelter  and  safeguard  of  their  own  natural  home. 

"Love,  when  I  was  waiting  to-day  in  Jessop's  bank " 

(Ah  I  that  was  another  change,  to  which  we  were  even 
yet  not  familiar,  the  passing  away  of  our  good  doctor  and 
his  wife,  and  his  brother  and  heir  turning  the  old  dining- 
room  into  a  ".County  Bank — open  from  ten  till  four.") 


JOHli    HALIFAX.  385 

"  While  waiting  there,  I  lieard  of  a  lady  who  struck  me 
as  likely  to  be  an  excellent  governess  for  Maud." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  not  over-enthusiastically. 
Maud  became  eager  to  know  "  what  the  lady  was  like?" 
I  at  the  same  time  inquiring  "  who  she  was  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  I  really  did  not  ask,"  John  answered  smiling. 
"  But  of  what  she  is,  Jessop  gave  me  first-rate  evidence — a 
good  daughter,  who  teaches  in  Norton  Bury  anybody's 
children  for  any  sort  of  pay,  in  order  to  maintain  an  ailing 
mother.  Ursula,  you  would  let  her  teach  our  Maud,  I 
know  ?  " 

"Is  she  an  Englishwoman?^' — For  Mrs.  Halifax,  preju- 
diced by  a  certain  French  lady  who  had  for  a  few  months 
completely  upset  the  peace  of  the  Manor-house,  and  even 
slightly  tainted  her  own  favorite,  pretty  Glrace  Oldtower, 
had  received  coldly  this  governess  plan  from  the  beginning. 
"  Would  she  have  to  live  with  us  ?" 

"  I  think  so,  decidedly." 

' '  Then  it  can't  be.  The  house  will  not  accommodate  her. 
It  will  hardly  hold  even  ourselves.  No,  we  cannot  take  in 
anybody  else  at  Longfield." 

' '  But — we  may  have  to  leave  Longfield. " 

The  boys  here  turned  to  listen  ;  for  this  question  had 
already  been  mooted,  as  all  family  questions  were.  In  our 
house  we  had  no  secrets  :  the  young  folk,  being  trusted, 
were  ever  trustworthy  :  and  the  parents,  clean-haniled  and 
purehearted,  had  nothing  that  they  were  afraid  to  tell  their 
children. 

"Leave  Longfield  I"  repeated  Mrs.  Halifax  ;  "surely — • 
surely — "  But  glancing  at  her  husband,  her  tone  of  im- 
patience ceased. 

He  sat  gazing  into  the  fire  with  an  anxious  air. 

"  Don't  let  us  discuss  that  question — at  least,  not  to- 
night.    It  troubles  you,  John.     Put  it  off  till  to-morrow." 

Xo,  that  was  never  his  habit.  He  was  one  of  the  very 
few  who,  a  thing  being  to  be  done,  will  not  trust  it  to  un- 
certain "to-morro^vs."  His  wife  saw  that  he  wanted  to 
talk  to  her,  and  listened, 

"  Yes,  the  question  does  trouble  me  a  good  deal. 
25 


I 


386  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Whether  now  that  our  children  are  growing  up,  and  out 
income  is  doubling  and  trebling  year  by  year,  we  ought  to 
widen  our  circle  of  usefulness,  or  close  it  up  permanently 
within  the  quiet  bound  of  little  Longfield.  Love,  which 
say  you  ?  " 

''  The  latter,  the  latter — because  it  is  far  the  happiest." 
"  I  am  afraid  not  the  latter,  because  it  is  the  happiest." 
He  spoke  gently,  laying  his  hand  on  his  wife's  shoulder 
and  looking  down  on  her  Avith  that  peculiar  look  which  he 
always  had  when  telling  her  things  that  he  knew  were  sore 
to  hear.     I  never  saw  that  look  on  any  living  face  save 
John's  ;  but  I  have  seen  it  once  in  a  picture — of  two  Hu- 
guenot lovers.     The  woman  is  trying  to  fasten  round  the 
man's  neck  the  white  badge  that  will  save  him  from  the 
massacre  (of  St.  Bartholomew) — he,  clasping  her  the  while, 
gently  puts  it  aside — not  stern,  but  smiling.     That  quiet, 
tender  smile,  firmer  than  any  frown,   will,  you  feel  sure, 
joon  control  the  woman's  anguish,  so  that  she  will  sob  out 
i  — any  faithful   woman  would — "  Go  die  !     Dearer  to  me 
than  even  thyself  are  thy  honor  and  thy  duty  ! " 

When  I  saw  this  noble  picture,  it  touched  to  the  core 
this  old  heart  of  mine — for  the  painter,  in  that  rare  expres- 
sion, might  have  caught  John's.  Just  as  in  a  few  crises  of 
his  life  I  have  seen  it,  and  especially  in  this  one,  when  he 
first  told  to  his  wife  that  determination  which  he  had 
slowly  come  to — that  it  was  both  right  and  expedient  for 
us  to  quit  Longfield,  our  happy  home  for  so  many  years, 
of  which  the  mother  loved  every  flower  in  the  garden, 
every  nook  and  stone  in  the  walls. 

"  Leave  Longfield  ! "  she  repeated  again  with  a  bitter 
sigh. 

"  Leave  Longfield  !  "  echoed  th  d  children,  first  the 
youngest,  then  the  eldest,  but  rather  in  curiosity  than  re- 
gret. Edwin's  keen,  bright  eyes  were  just  lifted  from  his 
book,  and  fell  again  ;  he  was  not  a  lad  of  much  sj)eech,  or 
much  demonstration  of  any  kind. 

*^Boys,  come  and  let  us  talk  over  the  matter." 
They  came  at  once  and  joined  in  the  circle  ;  respectfully, 
yet  with  entire  freedom,  they  looked  towards  their  father 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  387 

—  these;,  the  sons  of  his  youtli,  to  wliom  he  had  beeiKfrom 
their  birth  not  only  parent  and  head,  but  companion,  guide, 
and  familiar  friend.  They  honored  him,  they  trusted  him, 
they  loved  him  ;  not,  perhaps,  in  the  exact  way  that  they 
loved  their  mother  ;  for  it  often  seems  Nature's  own  ordi- 
nance, that  a  mother's  influence  should  be  strongest  over 
her  sons,  while  the  father's  is  greatest  over  his  daughters. 
But  even  a  stranger  could  not  glance  from  each  to  each 
of  those  attentive  faces,  so  different,  yet  Avith  a  curious 
''  family  look"  running  through  them  all,  without  seeing 
in  what  deep,  reverent  affection,  such  as  }uitnrally  takes  tlie 
place  of  childish  fondness,  these  youths  held  their  father. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid,  after  such  serious  thought  on  the 
matter,  and  much  consultation  with  your  mother  here, — 
that  we  ought  to  leave  Longfield." 

"So  I  think,"  said  Mistress  Maud,  from  her  foot-stool ; 
which  putting  forward  of  her  important  opinion  shook  us 
all  from  gravity  to  merriment,  that  compelled  even  Mrs. 
Halifax  to  join.  Then,  laying  aside  her  work,  and  with  it 
the  saddened  air  with  which  she  had  bent  over  it.  she  drew 
lier  chair  closer  to  her  husband,  slipping  her  hand  in  his, 
and  leaning  against  his  shoulder.  Upon  Avhich  Guy,  who 
had  at  first  watched  his  mother  anxiously,  doubtful 
whether  or  no  his  father's  plan  had  her  approval,  and 
therefore  ought  to  be  assented  to, — relapsed  into  satisfied, 
undivided  attention. 

"  I  have  again  been  over  Beechwood  Hall.  You  all  re- 
member Beech  wood  ?  " 

Yes.  It  was  the  "  great  house  "  at  Enderley,  just  on  the 
slope  of  the  hill,  below  Rose  Cottage.  The  beech-wood 
itself  was  part  of  its  pleasure-ground,  and  from  its  gardens 
honest  James  Tod,  who  had  them  in  keeping,  had  brought 
many  a  pocketful  of  pears  for  the  boys,  many  a  sweet- 
scented  nosegay  for  Muriel. 

"  Beechwood  has  been  empty  a  great  many  years,  father  ? 
Would  it  be  a  safe  investment  to  buy  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  Edwin,  my  practical  lad,^'  answered  the 
father,  smiling.  "  What  say  you,  children  ?  Would  you 
like  living  there  T' 


388  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Eaah  one  made  his  or  her  comment.  Guy's  countenance 
brightened  at  the  notion  of  "lots  of  shooting  and  fishing" 
about  Enderley,  especially  at  Luxmore  ;  and  Maud  counted 
on  the  numerous  visitors  that  would  come  to  John  Halifax, 
Esquire,  of  Beechwood  Hall. 

"  Neither  of  which  excellent  reasons  happen  to  be  your 
father's/'  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  shortly.  But  John,  often  ten- 
derer over  youthful  frivolities  than  she,  answered — 

"  I  will  tell  you,  boys,  what  are  my  reasons.  When  I 
was  a  young  man,  before  your  mother  and  I  were  married, 
indeed  before  I  had  ever  seen  her,  I  had  strongly  impressed 
on  my  mind  the  wish  to  gain  influence  in  the  world — riches 
if  I  could — but  at  all  events,  influence.  I  thought  I  could 
use  it  well,  better  than  most  men  ;  those  can  best  help  the 
poor  who  understand  the  poor.  And  I  can  ;  since,  you 
know,  when  Uncle  Phineas  found  me,  I  was — " 

"  Father,"  said  Gruy,  flushing  scarlet,  "  we  may  as  well 
pass  over  that  fact.     We  are  gentlefolks  now." 

"  We  always  were,  my  son." 

The  rebuke,  out  of  its  very  mildness,  cut  the  youth  to 
the  heart.  He  dropped  his  eyes,  coloring  now  with  a  dif- 
ferent and  a  holier  shame. 

"  I  know  that.     Please,  will  you  go  on,  father." 

"  And  now,"  the  father  continued,  speaking  as  much  out 
of  his  own  thoughts  as  aloud  to  his  children — "  now,  twenty- 
five  years  of  labor  have  won  for  me  the  jiosition  I  desired. 
That  is,  I  might  have  it  for  the  claiming.  I  might  take  my 
place  among  the  men  who  have  lately  risen  from  the  people, 
to  guide  and  help  the  jjeople — the  Cannings,  Huskissons, 
Peels." 

"  Would  you  enter  parliament  ?  Sir  Herbert  asked  me 
to-day  if  you  ever  intended  it.  He  said  there  was  nothing 
you  might  not  attain  to,  if  you  would  give  yourself  up  en- 
tirely to  politics." 

"  No,  Ctu}^,  no.  Wisdom,  like  charity,  begins  at  home. 
Let  me  learn  to  rule  in  my  own  valley,  among  my  own 
people,  before  I  attempt  to  guide  the  state.  And  that 
brings  me  back  again  to  the  pros  and  cons  about  Beechwood 
Hall." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  389 

^'  Tell  them,  John  ;  tell  all  out  plainly  to  tlie  eliildren." 

The  reasons  were — first,  the  advantage  of  the  boys  them- 
selves ;  for  John  Halifax  was  not  one  of  those  philan- 
thropists who  would  benefit  all  the  world  except  their  own 
liousehold  and  their  own  kin.  lie  wished — since  the  liigher 
a  man  rises,  the  wider  and  nobler  grows  his  sphere  of  use- 
fulness— not  only  to  lift  himself,  but  his  sons  after  him  ; — 
lift  them  high  enough  to  help  on  the  ever-advancing  tide 
of  human  improvement,  among  tlieir  own  people  first,  and 
thence  extending  outward  in  the  world  whithersoever  their 
talents  or  circumstances  might  call  them. 

"  \  understand,"  cried  the  eldest  son,  his  eyes  sparkling, 
"  you  want  to  found  a  family.  And  so  it  shall  be — we  will 
settle  at  Beechwood  Hall  ;  all  coming  generations  shall  live 
to  the  honor  and  glory  of  your  name — our  name — " 

"  My  boy,  there  is  only  one  Name  to  whose  honor  we 
should  all  live.  One  Name  '  in  whom  all  the  generations 
of  the  earth  are  blessed."  In  thus  far  only  do  I  wish  to 
'found  a  family,' as  you  call  it,  that  our  light  may  shine 
before  men — that  we  may  be  a  city  set  on  a  hill — that  we 
may  say  plainly  unto  all  that  ask  us,  '  For  me  and  my  liouse 
we  will  serve  the  Lord.' " 

It  was  not  often  that  John  Halifax  spoke  thus  ;  adopting 
solemnly  the  literal  language  of  the  Book — his  and  our  life's 
guide,  no  word  of  which  was  ever  used  lightly  in  our  family. 
We  all  listened,  as  in  his  earnestness  he  rose,  and,  standing 
upright  in  the  firelight,  spoke  on. 

''I  believe,  with  His  blessing,  that  one  may  'serve  the 
Lord '  as  well  in  wealth  as  in  poverty,  in  a  great  house  as 
in  a  cottage  like  this.  I  am  not  doubtful,  even  though  my 
possessions  are  increased.  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  a  rich 
man.  Nor  a  great  man  neither,  if  I  were  called  to  such  a 
destiny." 

"  It  may  be — who  knows  ?  "  said  Ursula,  softly. 

John  caught  his  wife's  eyes,  and  smiled. 

"  Love,  you  were  a  true  prophet  once,  Vvith  a  certain 
'  Yes,  you  will,'  but  now — Children,  you  know  when  I  mar- 
ried your  mother  I  had  nothing,  and  she  gave  up  every- 
thing for  me.     I  said  I  would  yet  make  her  as  liigla  as  any 


390  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

lady  in  the  land, — in  fortune  I  tlien  meant,  thinking  it 
would  make  her  happier ;  but  she  and  I  are  wiser  now. 
We  know  tliat  we  never  can  be  happier  than  we  were  in 
the  old  house  at  Norton  Bury,  or  in  this  little  Longfield. 
By  making  her  lady  of  Beechwood  I  should  double  her 
responsibilities  and  treble  her  cares  ;  give  her  an  infinitude 
of  new  duties,  and  no  pleasures  half  so  sweet  as  those  we 
left  behind.  Still,  of  herself  and  for  herself,  my  wife 
shall  decide." 

Ursula  looked  up  at  him  ;  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  though 
through  them  shone  all  the  steadfastness  of  faithful  love. 
"  Thank  you  John.  I  have  decided.  If  you  wish  it,  if 
you  think  it  right,  we  will  leave  Longfield  and  go  to  Beech- 
wood." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead,  saying  only — "We 
will  go." 

Guy  looked  up,  half-reproachfully,  as  if  tlie  father  were 
exacting  a  sacrifice  ;  but  I  question  whether  the  greater 
sacrifice  were  not  his  who  took,  rather  than  hers  who  gave. 

So  all  was  settled — we  were  to  leave  beloved  Longfield. 
It  was  to  be  let,  not  sold  ;  let  to  a  person  we  knew,  who 
would  take  jealous  care  of  all  that  was  ours,  and  we  might 
come  back  and  see  it  continually  ;  but  it  would  be  ours — 
our  own  home  no  more. 

Very  sad — sadder  even  than  I  had  thought — was  the 
leaving  all  the  familiar  things  ;  tlie  orchard  and  the  flower- 
garden,  the  meadow  and  the  stream,  the  woody  hills  beyond, 
every  line  and  wave  of  which  was  pleasant  and  dear  almost 
as  our  children's  faces.  Ay,  almost  as  that  face  which  for 
a  year — one  little  year,  had  lived  in  sight  of,  but  never  be- 
held their  beauty ;  the  child  who  one  spring  day  had  gone 
away  merrily  out  of  the  white  gate  with  her  three  brothers, 
and  never  came  back  to  Longfield  any  more. 

Perhaps  this  circumstance,  that  her  fading  away  and  her 
departure  happened  away  from  home,  was  the  cause  why 
her  memory — the  memory  of  our  living  Muriel,  in  her  hu- 
man childhood — afterwards  clung  more  especially  about  the 
house  at  Longfield.  The  other  children  altered,  impercep- 
tibly yet  so  swiftly,  that  from  year  to  year  we  half  forgot 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  391 

their  old  likenesses.  But  Muriel's  never  changed.  Her 
image,  only  a  shade,  yet  often  more  real  than  any  of  these 
living  children,  seemed  perpetually  among  us.  It  crept 
through  the  house  at  dusk  ;  in  winter  fire-light  it  sat  smil- 
ing in  dim  corners  ;  in  spring  mornings  it  moved  about  the 
garden  borders,  with  tiny  soft  footsteps,  neither  seen  nor 
heard.  The  otliers  grew  up — would  be  men  and  women 
shortly — but  the  one  child  ''  that  was  not,"  remained  to  us 
always  a  child. 

I  thought,  even  the  last  evening — the  very  last  evening 
that  John  returned  from  Enderley,  and  his  wife  went  down 
to  the  stream  to  meet  him,  and  they  came  up  the  field  to- 
gether, as  they  had  done  for  so  Inany,  many  years  ; — ay, 
even  then  I  thought  I  saw  his  eyes  turn  to  the  spot  where 
a  little  pale  figure  used  to  sit  on  the  door-sill,  listening  and 
waiting  for  him,  with  her  dove  in  lier  bosom.  We  never 
kept  doves  now. 

And  the  same  night,  when  all  the  household  was  in  bed 
— even  the  mother,  who  had  gone  about  Avith  a  restless 
activity,  trying  to  persuade  herself  that  there  would  be  at 
least  no  possibility  of  accomplishing  the  flitting  to-morrow 
— the  last  night,  when  John  went  as  usual  to  fasten  the 
house-door,  he  stood  a  long  time  outside,  looking  down  the 
valley. 

"How  quiet  everything  is.  You  can  almost  hear  the 
tinkle  of  the  stream.  Poor  old  Longfield  !  "  And  I  sighed, 
thinking  we  should  never  again  have  such  another  home. 

John  did  not  answer.  He  had  been  mechanically  bend- 
ing aside  and  training  into  its  jDlace  a  long  shoot  of 
wild  clematis — virgin's  bower,  wdiich  Guy  and  Muriel  had 
brought  in  from  the  fields  and  planted,  a  tiny  root  ;  it 
covered  the  whole  front  of  the  house  now.  Then  he  came 
and  leaned  beside  me  over  the  wicket-gate,  looking  fixedly 
up  into  the  moon-light  blue. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  knows  we  are  leaving  Longfield  ?" 

"  Who  ?"  said  I  ;  for  a  moment  forgetting. 

''  The  child." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

Father  and  son — a  goodly  sight,  as  they  paced  side  by 
side  up  and  down  the  gravel  walk — (alas  !  the  pretty 
field-path  belonged  to  days  that  were  !) — up  and  down  the 
broad  sunshiny  walk,  in  front  of  the  breakfast-room  windows 
of  Beechwood  Hall. 

It  was  early — little  past  eight  o'clock  ;  but  we  kept  Long- 
field  hours  and  Longfield  ways  still.  And  besides,  this  was 
a  grand  day — the  day  of  Guy's  coming  of  age.  Curious  it 
seemed  to  watch  him,  as  he  walked  along  by  his  father, 
looking  every  inch  "the  young  heir  ;  "  and  perhaps  not  un- 
conscious that  he  did  so ; — curious  enough,  remembering 
how  meekly  the  boy  had  come  into  the  world,  at  a  certain 
old  house  at  Norton  Bury,  one  rainy  December  morning, 
twenty-one  years  ago. 

It  was  a  bright  day  to-day — bright  as  all  our  faces  were, 
I  think,  as  we  gathered  round  the  cosy  breakfast-table. 
There,  as  heretofore,  it  was  the  mother's  pride  and  the 
father's  pleasure  that  not  one  face  should  be  missing — that, 
summei"  and  winter,  all  should  assemble  for  an  hour  of  family 
fun  and  family  chat,  before  the  busy  cares  of  the  day  ;  and 
by  general  consent,  which  had  grown  into  habit,  every  one 
tried  to  keep  unclouded  this  little  bit  of  early  sunshine, 
before  the  father  and  brothers  went  away.  No  sour  or 
dreary  looks,  no  painful  topics  were  ever  brought  to  the 
breakfast-table. 

Thus,  it  was  against  all  custom,  when  Mr.  Halifax,  lay- 
ing down  his  newspaper  with  a  grave  countenance,  said — 

"  This  is  very  ill  news.  Ten  Bank  failures  in  the  Gazette 
to-day. " 

"  But  it  will  not  harm  us,  father." 

''Edwin  is  always  thinking  of  'us,'  and  'our  business,'"' 
remarked  Guy,  rather  sharplv.     It  was  one  of  the  slight — 

393 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  393 

the  very  slight — jars  in  our  household,  that  these  two  lads, 
excellent  lads  both,  as  they  grew  into  manhood,  did  not 
exactly  ' "  pull  together. " 

"  Edwin  is  scarcely  wrong  in  thinking  of  '  us,'  since  upon 
us  depend  so  many,"  observed  the  father,  in  that  quiet 
tone  with  which,  when  he  did  happen  to  interfere  between 
his  sons,  he  generally  smoothed  matters  down  and  kept 
the  balance  even.  "  Yet,  though  we  are  ourselves  secure, 
I  trust,  the  losses  everywhere  around  us  make  it  the  more 
necessary  that  we  should  not  parade  our  good  fortune  by 
launching  out  into  any  of  Guy's  magnificences — eh,  my 
boy?" 

The  youth  looked  down.  It  was  well  known  in  the 
family,  that  since  wo  came  to  Beechwood  his  pleasure- 
loving  temjDcrament  had  wanted  all  sorts  of  improvements 
on  our  style  of  living — fox-hounds,  dinner-parties,  balls  ; 
that  the  father's  ways,  which,  though  extended  to  liberal 
hospitalities,  forbade  outward  show,  and  made  our  life  a 
thorough  family  life  still — were  somewhat  distasteful  to 
that  most  fascinating  young  gentleman,  Guy  Halifax, 
Esquire,  heir  of  Beechwood  Hall. 

"  You  may  call  it  '  magnificence,'  or  what  you  choose  ; 
but  I  know  I  should  like  to  live  a  little  more  as  our  neigh- 
bors do.  And  I  think  we  ought  too — we  that  are  known  to 
be  the  wealthiest  family — " 

He  stopped  abruptly — for  the  door  opened  ;  and  Guy  had 
too  much  good  taste  and  good  feeling,  to  discuss  our  riches 
before  Maud's  poor  governess — the  tall,  grave,  sad-looking, 
sad-clothed  Miss  Silver  ;  the  same  whom  John  had  seen  at 
■  Mr.  Jessop's  bank  ;  and  who  had  been  with  us  four  months 
— ever  since  we  came  to  Beechwood. 

One  of  the  boys  rose  and  offered  her  a  chair  ;  for  the 
parents  set  the  example  of  treating  her  with  entire  respect 
— nay,  would  gladly  have  made  her  altogether  one  of  the 
family,  had  she  not  been  so  very  reserved. 

Miss  Silver  came  forward  with  the  daily  nosegay  which 
Mrs.   Halifax  had  confided  to  her  superintendence. 

"  They  are  the  best  I  can  find,  madam — I  believe  Wat- 
kins  keeps  all  his  greenhoiise  flowers  for  to-night." 


394  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"■  Thank  you,  my  dear.  These  will  do  very  well. — Yes, 
Guy,  persuade  Miss  Silver  to  take  your  place  by  the  fire. 
She  looks  so  cold." 

But  Miss  Silver,  declining  the  kindness,  passed  on  to  her 
own  seat  opposite. 

Ursula  busied  herself  over  the  breakfast  equipage,  rather 
nervously.  Though  an  admirable  person,  iVIiss  Silver  in 
her  extreme  and  all  but  repellant  quietness  was  one  whom 
the  mother  found  it  difficult  to  get  on  with.  She  was  scru- 
pulously kind  to  her  :  and  the  governess  was  as  scrupulously 
exact  in  all  courtesy  and  attention  ;  still  that  impassible, 
self-contained  demeanor,  that  great  reticence — it  might  be 
shyness,  it  might  be  pride, — sometimes,  Ursula  privately 
admitted,  "fidgeted"  her. 

To-day  was  to  be  a  general  holiday  for  both  masters  and 
servants  ;  a  dinner  at  the  mills  ;  and  in  the  evening  something 
which,  though  we  called  it  a  tea-drinking,  began  to  look,  I 
was  amused  to  see,  exceedingly  like  "  a  ball."  But  on  this 
occasion  both  parents  had  yielded  to  their  young  people's 
wishes,  and  half  the  neigliborhood  had  been  invited  by 
the  universally-popular  Mr.  Guy  Halifax,  to  celebrate  his 
coming  of  age. 

"  Only  once  in  the  way,"  said  the  mother,  half  ashamed 
of  herself  for  thus  indulging  the  boy — as  giving  his  shoulder 
a  fond  shake,  she  called  him  "a  foolish  fellow." 

Then  we  all  dispersed  ;  Guy  and  Walter  to  ride  to  the 
Manor-house,  Edwin  vanishing  with  his  sister,  to  whom  he 
was  giving  daily  Latin  lessons  in  the  school-room. 

John  asked  me  to  take  a  walk  on  the  hill  with  him. 

"  Go,  Phineas,"  whispered  his  wife — "  it  will  do  him 
good.  And  don't  let  him  talk  too  much  of  old  times.  TJiis 
is  a  hard  week  for  him." 

The  mother's  eyes  were  mournful,  for  Guy  and  "  the  child  '^ 
had  been  born  within  a  year  and  three  days  of  each  other  ; 
but  she  never  hinted — it  never  would  have  struck  her  to 
hint — "'  this  is  a  hard  week  for  me." 

That  grief — the  one  great  grief  of  their  life,  had  come  to 
her  more  wholesomely  than  to  her  husband  :  either  because 
men,  the  very  best  of  men,  can  only  suffer,  while  women 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  395 

can  endure;  or  because  in  the  mysterious  ordinance  of 
nature  Maud's  baby  lips  had  sucked  away  the  bitterness  of 
the  pang  from  the  bereaved  mother,  wliiie  her  loss  was  yet 
new.  It  had  never  been  left  to  rankle  in  that  warm  heart, 
which  had  room  for  every  living  child,  while  it  cherished, 
in  tenderness  above  all  sorrow,  the  child  that  was  no  more. 

John  and  I,  in  our  walk,  stood  a  moment  by  the  low 
church-yard  wall,  and  looked  over  at  that  plain  white  stone, 
where  was  inscribed  her  name,  "  Muriel  Joy  Halifax," — a 
line  out  of  that  New  Testament  miracle-story  she  delighted 
in,  "  Wliereas  I  was  blind,  now  I  see," — and  the  date  when 
she  saw.     Nothing  more  :  it  was  not  needed. 

"^  December  5,  1813,"  said  the  father,  reading  the  date. 
"  She  would  have  been  quite  a  woman  now.  How  strange  ! 
My  little  Muriel  !  " 

And  he  walked  thoughtfully  along,  almost  in  the  same 
footprints  where  he  had  been  used  to  carry  his  darling  up 
the  hill-side  to  the  brow  of  Enderley  Flat.  He  seemed  in 
fancy  to  bear  her  in  his  arms  still — this  little  one,  whom,  as 
I  have  before  said.  Heaven,  in  its  compensating  mercy,  year 
by  year,  through  all  changes,  had  made  the  one  treasure 
that  none  could  take  away — the  only  child  left  to  be  a 
child  for  ever. 

I  think,  as  we  rested  in  the  self-same  place,  the  sunshiny 
nook  where  we  used  to  sit  with  her  for  hours  together,  the 
father's  heart  took  this  consolation  so  closely  and  surely  into 
itself,  that  memory  altogether  ceased  to  be  pain.  He  l3egan 
talking  about  the  other  children — especially  Maud — and 
then  of  Miss  Silver,  her  governess. 

"I  wish  she  were  more  likeable,  John.  It  vexes  me 
sometimes  to  see  how  coldly  she  returns  the  mother'^ 
kindness." 

"  Poor  thing  ! — she  has  evidently  not  been  used  to  kind- 
ness. You  should  have  seen  how  amazed  she  looked  yes- 
terday when  we  paid  her  a  little  more  than  her  salary,  and 
my  wife  gave  her  a  pretty  silk  dress  to  wear  to-night.  I 
hardly  knew  whether  she  would  refuse  it,  or  burst  out  cry- 
ing— in  girlish  fashion." 

"  Is  she  a  girl  ?     Why,  the  boys  say  she  looks  thirty  at 


396  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

least,     Guy  and  Walter  Ian gh  amazingly  at  her  dowdy  dress 
and  her  solemn,  haughty  ways." 

''That  will  not  do,  Phineas.  I  must  speak  to  them. 
They  ought  to  make  allowances  for  poor  Miss  Silver,  of 
whom  I  think  most  highly." 

"  I  know  you  do   ;  but  do  you  heartily  like  her  ?  " 

"  For  most  things,  yes.  And  I  sincerely  respect  her,  or, 
of  course,  she  would  not  be  here.  I  think  people  should 
be  as  particular  over  choosing  their  daughter's  governess 
as  their  son's  wife  ;  and  having  chosen,  should  show  her 
almost  equal  honor." 

"  You^ll  have  your  sons  choosing  themselves  wives  soon, 
John.  I  fancy  Guy  has  a  soft  place  in  his  heart  for  that 
pretty  Grace  Old  tower." 

But  the  father  made  no  answer.  He  was  always  tenacious 
over  the  lightest  approach  to  such  jests  as  these.  And 
besides  just  at  this  moment  Mr.  Brown,  Lord  Luxmore's 
steward,  passed — riding  solemnly  along.  He  barely  touched 
his  hat  to  Mr.  Halifax. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Brown  !  He  has  a  grudge  against  me  for 
those  Mexican  speculations  I  refused  to  embark  in  ;  he  did, 
and  lost  everything  but  what  he  gets  from  Lord  Luxmore. 
I  do  think,  Phineas,  the  country  has  been  running  mad  this 
year  after  speculation.  There  is  sure  to  come  a  panic  after- 
wards, and  indeed  it  seems  already  beginning." 

"  But  you  are  secure  ?  You  have  not  joined  in  the 
mania,  and  the  crash  cajinot  harm  you  ?  Did  I  not  hear 
you  say,  that  you  were  not  afraid  of  losing  a  single  penny  ?" 

"  Yes — unfortunately,"  with  a  troubled  smile. 

"  John,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  that  to  stand  upright  v/hile  one's  neighbors  are 
falling  on  all  sides,  is  a  most  trying  position.  IMisfortvne 
makes  people  unjust.  The  other  day  at  the  sessions,  I  got 
cold  looks  enough  from  my  brother  magistrates — looks  that 
would  have  set  my  blood  boiling  twenty  years  ago.  And — 
you  saw  in  the  I^orton  Bury  Mercury  that  article  al)out 
'  grasping  plebeian  millionaires  ' — '  wool-spinners,  spinning 
out  of  their  country's  vitals.' — That's  meant  for  me, 
Phineas.     Don't  look  incredulous.     Yes — for  me." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  397 

'•'  How  disgraceful  !  " 

"  Perhaps  so — but  to  them  more  tlum  to  me.  I  feel  sorry, 
because  of  the  harm  it  may  do  me — especially  among  work- 
ing people,  who  know  nothing  but  what  they  hear,  and 
believe  everything  that  is  told  them.  They  see  I  thrive 
and  others  fail — that  my  mills  are  the  only  cloth  mills  in  full 
work,  and  I  have  more  hands  than  I  can  employ.  p]very 
week  I  am  obliged  to  send  new  comers  away.  Then  they 
I'aise  the  old  cry — that  my  machinery  has  ruined  labor. 
So,  you  see,  for  all  that  Guy  says  about  our  prosperity,  his 
father  does  not  sleep  exactly  upon  a  bed  of  roses." 

"  It  is  wicked — atrocious  !  " 

"Not  at  all.  Only  natural — the  penalty  one  has  to  pay 
for  success.  It  will  die  out  most  likely  ;  meantime,  we  will 
mind  it  as  little  as  we  can." 

"'  But  are  you  safe  ? — your  life — "  For  a  sudden  fear 
crossed  me — a  fear  not  unwarranted  by  more  than  one  event 
of  this  year — this  terrible  1825. 

"Safe  ?— yes — "  and  his  eyes  were  lifted,  "  I  believe  my 
life  is  safe — if  I  have  work  to  do.  Still,  for  others'  sake,  I 
have  carried  this  month  past  whenever  I  go  to  and  from  the 
Coltham  bank,  besides  my  cash-box — this." 

He  showed  me,  peering  out  of  his  breast-pocket,  a  small 
pistol. 

I  was  greatly  startled. 

"  Does  your  wife  know  ?  " 

'*  Of  course.  But  she  knows  too,  that  nothing  but  the 
last  extremity  would  force  me  to  use  it  :  also  that  my  carry- 
ing it,  and  its  being  noised  about  that  I  do  so,  may  prevent 
my  ever  having  occasion  to  use  it.  God  grant  I  never  may  ! 
Don't  let  us  talk  about  this." 

He  stopped,  gazing  with  a  sad  abstraction  down  the  sun- 
shiny valley — most  part  of  which  was  already  his  own 
property.  For  whatever  capital  he  could  spare  from  his 
business  he  never  sunk  in  speculation,  but  took  a  patriarchal 
pleasure  in  investing  it  in  land,  chiefly  for  the  benefit  of 
his  mills,  and  those  concerned  therein. 

"  My  poor  people — they  might  have  known  me  better  ! 
But  I  suppose  one  never  attains  one's  desire  without  its  be- 


398  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

ing  leavened  with  some  bitterness.  If  there  was  one  point 
I  was  anxious  over  in  my  youth,  it  was  to  keep  up  through 
life  a  name  like  the  Chevalier  Bayard — how  folk  would 
smile  to  hear  of  a  tradesman  emulating  Bayard — '  Sans 
peur  et  sans  reproclie  ! '  And  so  things  might  be — ought  to 
be.     So  perhaps  they  shall  be  yet,  in  spite  of  this  calumny." 

"  How  shall  you  meet  it  ?     AVhat  shall  you  do  ?  " 

"Nothing.     Live  it  down." 

He  stood  still,  looking  across  the  valley  to  where  the 
frosty  line  of  the  hill-tops  met  the  steel-blue,  steadfast  sky. 

Yes,  I  felt  sure  he  would  "  live  it  down." 

We  dismissed  the  suljject,  and  spent  an  hour  or  more 
in  pleasant  chat  about  many  things.  Passing  homeward 
through  the  beech-wood,  where  through  the  bare  tree-tops 
a  light  snow  was  beginning  to  fall,  John  said  musingly — 

"It  will  be  a  hard  winter — we  shall  have  to  help  our  poor 
people  a  great  deal.  Christmas  dinners  will  be  much  in 
request." 

"There's  a  saying  that  the  way  to  an  Englishman's  heart 
is  through  his  stomach.  So,  perhaps,  you'll  get  justice 
by  spring." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Phineas.  As  I  tell  my  wife,  it  is  not 
worth  while.  Half  the  wrongs  people  do  to  us  are  through 
sheer  ignorance.  We  must  be  patient.  '  In  your  'patience 
possess  ye  your  souls.'  " 

He  said  this,  more  to  himself  than  aloud,  as  if  carrying 
out  the  thread  of  his  own  thouglit.  Mine  following  it, 
and  observing  him,  involuntarily  turned  to  another  pas- 
sage in  our  Book  of  books,  about  the  blessedness  of  some 
men,  even  when  reviled  and  persecuted. 

Ay,  and  for  all  his  many  cares,  John  Halifax  looked 
like  a  man  who  was  "  blessed." 

Blessed,  and  happy  too,  throughout  that  day,  especially 
in  the  midst  of  the  mill-yard  dinner — which  reminded  me 
forcibly  of  that  feast,  at  which  guests  were  gathered  out 
of  the  highways  and  hedges — guests,  such  as  John  Halifax 
liked  to  have — guests  who  could  not,  by  any  possibility, 
"  recompense"  him.  Yet  it  did  one's  heart  good  to  hear 
the  cheer  that  greeted  the  master,  ay,  and  the  young  mas- 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  399 

ter  too,  wlio  was  to-day  for  tlie  first  time  presented  as  such  ; 
— as  the  firm  henceforward  was  to  be,  "  Halifax  &  Son." 

And  full  of  smiling  satisfaction  was  the  father's  look, 
when  in  the  evening  he  stood  in  the  midst  of  his  children, 
waiting  for  "  Guy's  visitors,"  as  he  pertinaciously  declared 
them  to  be — these  fine  people,  for  whose  entertainment  our 
house  had  been  these  three  days  turned  upside  down  ;  the 
sober  old  dining-room  converted  into  a  glittering  ball-room, 
and  the  entrance-hall  a  very  "  bowci-  of  bli.-s" — all  green 
boughs  and  Chinese  lanterns.  John  })rotested  he  should 
not  have  known  his  own  study  again  ;  and  that,  if  these 
festive  transformations  were  to  happen  frequently,  he  should 
soon  not  even  know  himself  ! 

Yet  for  all  that,  and  in  spite  of  the  comical  horror  he 
testified  at  this  first  bouleversement  of  our  quiet  home 
ways,  I  think  he  had  a  real  pleasure  in  his  children's  de- 
light ;  in  wandering  with  tlieni  through  the  decorated 
rooms,  tapestried  with  ivy  and  laurel,  and  arbor  vitte  ;  in 
making  them  all  pass  in  review  before  him.  and  admiring 
their  handiwork  and  themselves. 

A  goodly  group  they  made — our  young  folk  :  there  were 
no  "children"  now — for  even  Maud,  who  was  tall  and  wo- 
manly for  her  age,  had  bloomed  out  in  a  ball  dress,  all 
white  muslin  and  camelias,  and  apjieared  every  inch  "  Miss 
Halifax."  Walter,  too,  had  latt'ly  eschewed  jackets,  and 
began  to  borrow  razors  ;  while  Edwin,  though  still  small, 
had  a  keen,  old-man-like  look,  which  made  him  seem,  as  he 
was,  indeed,  in  character — the  eldest  of  the  three.  Alto- 
gether, they  were  "  a  fine  family."  such  as  any  man  might 
rejoice  to  see  growing  or  grown  up  around  him. 

But  my  eyes  naturally  sought  the  father,  as  he  stood 
among  his  boys,  taller  than  any  of  them,  and  possessing 
far  more  than  they  that  quality  for  which  John  Halifax 
had  always  been  remarkable — dignity.  True,  Nature  had 
favored  him  beyond  most  men.  giving  him  the  stately, 
handsome  presence  befitting  middle  age.  throwing  a  kind 
of  apostolic  grace  over  the  high,  half-bald  crown,  and 
touching  with  a  softened  grey  the  still  curly  locks  behind. 
But   these  were  mere  accidents  ;  the  true  dignity  lay  in 


400  JOHK    HALIFAX. 

himself  and  his  own  personal  character,  independent  of  any 
exterior. 

It  was  pleasant  to  watch  him,  and  note  how  advancing 
years  had  given  rather  than  taken  away  from  liis  outward 
mien.  As  ever,  he  was  distinguisliable  from  other  men,  even 
to  his  dress — which  had  something  of  the  Quaker  about  it 
still,  in  its  sober  color,  its  rarely-changed  fashion,  and  its 
exceeding  neatness.  Mrs.  Halifax  used  now  and  then  to 
laugh  at  him  for  being  so  particular  over  his  daintiest  of 
cambric  and  finest  of  lawn^but  secretly  she  took  the  great- 
est pride  in  his  appearance. 

"John  looks  well  to-night,"  she  said,  coming  in  and  sit- 
ting down  by  me,  her  eyes  following  uiine.  One  would  not 
have  guessed  from  her  quiet  gaze  that  she  knew — what 
John  had  told  me  she  knew,  this  morning.  But  these  tv/o 
in  their  perfect  union  had  a  wonderful  strength — a  wonder- 
ful fearlessness.  And  she  had  learned  from  him,  what  per- 
haps originally  was  foreign  to  her  impressible  and  somewhat 
anxious  mind — that  steadfast  faith,  which,  while  ready  to 
meet  every  ill  when  the  time  comes,  until  the  time  waits 
cheerfully,  and  will  not  disquiet  itself  in  vain. 

Thus,  for  all  their  cares,  her  face  as  well  as  his,  was  calm 
and  bright.  Bright,  even  with  the  prettiest  girlish  blush, 
when  John  came  up  to  his  wife  and  admired  her — as  indeed 
was  not  surprising. 

She  laughed  at  him,  and  declared  she  ahvays  intended  to 
grow  lovely  in  her  old  age.  "  I  thought  I  ought  to  dress 
myself  grandly,  too,  on  (Juy's  Inrthday.  Do  vou  like  me, 
John?" 

'''Very  much  ;  I  like  that  black  velvet  gown,  substantial, 
soft  and  rich,  without  any  show.  And  that  lace  frill  round 
your  throat — what  sort  of  lace  is  it  ?  " 

"Valenciennes.  When  I  was  a  girl,  if  I  had  a  weakness 
it  was  for  black  velvet  and  Valenciennes." 

John  smiled,  with  visible  pleasure  that  she  had  even  a 
"weakness"  gratified  now.  "And  you  have  put  on 
my  brooch  at  last,  I  see." 

"Yes;  but" —  and  she  shook  her  head — "remember 
your  promise  I " 


JOMJ^    HALIFAX.  401 

''Phineas,  this  wife  of  mine  is  a  vain  woman.  Slie 
knows  her  own  j)rice  is  '  far  above  rubies ' — or  diamonds 
either.  No,  Mrs.  Halifax,  be  not  afraid  ;  I  shall  give  you 
no  more  jewels.^' 

She  did  not  need  them.  She  stood  amidst  lier  three  sons 
with  the  smile  of  a  Cornelia.  She  felt  her  husband's  eyes 
rest  on  her,  with  that  quiet  perfectness  of  love,  better  than 
any  lover's  love — 

"The  fullness  of  a  stream  that  knew  uo  fall  " — 

the  love  of  a  husband  who  has  been  married  nearly  twenty- 
five  years. 

Here  a  troop  of  company  arrived,  and  John  left  me  to 
assume  his  duty  as  host. 

No  easy  duty,  as  I  soon  perceived  ;  for  times  were  hard, 
and  men's  minds  troubled.  Every  one,  except  the  light- 
heeled,  light-hearted  youngsters,  looked  grave. 

Many  yet  alive  remember  this  year,  ]8'^"') — the  panic 
year.  War  having  ceased,  commerce,  in  its  worst  form, 
started  into  sudden  and  unhealthy  overgrowth.  Specula- 
tions of  all  ki}ids  sprung  up  like  fungi,  out  of  dead  wood, 
flourished  alittle,  and  drop23ed  away.  Then  came  ruin,  not 
of  hundreds,  but  thousands,  of  all  ranks  and  classes.  This 
year,  and  this  month  in  this  year,  the  breaking  of  many 
established  firms,  especially  bankers,  foretold  that  the  uni- 
versal crash  had  just  begun. 

It  was  felt  even  in  our  retired  country  neighborhood, 
and  among  our  friendly  guests  this  night,  both  gentle  and 
simple — and  there  was  a  mixture  of  both,  as  only  a  man  in 
]\Ir.  Halifax's  position  could  mix  such  heterogeneous  ele- 
ments— towns-people  and  country-people,  dissenters  and 
church-folk,  professional  men  and  men  of  business.  John 
dared  to  do  it — and  did  it.  But  though  through  his  own 
personal  influence,  many  of  different  ranks  whom  he  liked 
and  respected,  meeting  in  his  house,  learned  to  like  and 
respect  one  another,  still,  even  to-night,  he  could  not  re- 
move the  cloud  which  seemed  to  hang  over  all — a  cloud  so 
heavy,  that  none  present  liked  referring  to  it.  They  hit 
upon  all  sorts  of  extraneous  subjects,  keeping  far  aloof 
26 


402  JOHN-   HALIFAX. 

from  the  one  which  evidently  pressed  upon  all  minds — the 
universal  distress  abroad,  and  the  fear  that  was  knocking 
at  almost  every  man's  door  but  ours. 

Of  course,  the  talk  fell  on  our  neighbors — country  talk 
always  does.  I  sat  still,  listening  to  Sir  Herbert  Oldtower, 
who  was  wondering  that  Lord  Luxmore  suffered  the  Hall 
to  drop  into  disgraceful  decay,  and  had  begun  cutting  down 
the  pine-woods  round  it. 

"  Woods,  older  than  his  title  by  many  a  century — down- 
right sacrilege  !  And  the  property  being  entailed,  too — 
actual  robbery  of  the  lieir  !  But  I  understand  anybody  may 
do  anything  with  Lord  Ravenel — a  mere  selfish,  cynical 
idle  voluptuary  ! " 

"  Indeed  you  are  mistaken.  Sir  Herbert !  "  cried  Mr.  Jes- 
sop  of  Norton  Bury — a  very  honest  fellow  was  Josiah  Jes- 
sop.  "He  banks  Avith  me — that  is,  there  are  some  poor 
Catholics  in  this  neighborhood  whom  I  pay — but  bless  me  ! 
he  told  me  not  to  tell.  No,  indeed.  Cynical  he  may  be  ; 
idle,  perhaps — most  men  of  fashion  are — but  Lord  Eavenel 
is  not  the  least  like  his  father — is  he,  Mr.  Halifax  ?  " 

"I  have  not  seen  Lord  Raven  el  for  many  years." 

And  as  if,  even  to  this  day,  the  mention  of  the  young 
man's  name  brought  back  thoughts  of  the  last  day  we  had 
seen  him — a  day  which,  its  sadness  having  gone  by,  still 
kept  its  unspoken  sacredness,  distinct  from  all  other  days — 
John  moved  away  and  went  and  talked  to  a  girl  whom  both 
he  and  the  mother  liked  above  most  young  girls  we  knew — 
simple,  sunny-faced  Grace  Oldtower. 

Dancing  began.  Spite  of  my  Quaker  education,  or  per- 
haps for  that  very  reason,  I  deliglited  to  see  dancing. 
Dancing,  such  as  was  then,  when  young  folk  moved  breez- 
ily and  lightly,  as  if  they  loved  it ;  skimming  like  swallows 
down  the  long  lines  of  the  Triumph — gracefully  winding  in 
and  out  tlirough  the  graceful  country-dance — lively  always, 
but  always  decorous.  In  those  days  people  did  not  think 
it  necessary  to  the  pleasures  of  dancing  that  any  stranger 
should  have  liberty  to  snatch  a  shy,  innocent  girl  round  the 
waist,  and  whirl  her  about  in  mad  waltz  or  awkward  polka, 
till  she  stops,  giddy  and  breathless,  with  burning  cheek  and 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  403 

tossed  hair,  looking, — as  I  would  not  have  liked  to  see  our 
pretty  Maud  look. 

No ;  though  while  watching  the  little  lady  to-night,  I 
was  inclined  to  say  to  her — 

"  When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that." 

And  in  her  unwearied  spirits  she  seemed  as  if  she  Avould 
readily  have  responded  to  the  wish. 

We  did  not  see  Guy  among  the  dancers,  who  were  now 
forming  in  a  somewhat  confused  square,  in  order  to  execute 
a  new  dance  called  quadrilles,  of  which  Miss  Grace  Old- 
tower  was  to  be  the  instructress. 

"Where  is  Guy?"  said  the  mother.  Avho  would  have 
missed  him  among  a  room  full  of  people,  "  Have  you  seen 
Guy  anywhere.  Miss  Silver  ?  " 

Miss  Silver,  who  sat  playing  tunes — she  had  declined 
dancing — turned,  coloring  visibly. 

''Yes,  I  have  seen  him  ;  he  is  in  the  study." 

"Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  fetch  him  ?" 

The  governess  rose  and  crossed  the  room,  with  a  stately 
walk — statelier  than  usual.  Her  silk  gown,  of  some  rich 
soft  color,  fashioned  after  Mrs.  Halifax's  taste,  and  the 
chaplet  of  bay-leaves,  which  !Maud  had  insisted  upon  put- 
ting in  her  dark  hair,  made  an  astonishing  change  in  Miss 
Silver.     I  could  not  help  noticing  it  to  Mrs.  Halifax. 

"  Yes,  indeed  she  looks  well.  John  says  her  features 
are  fine  :  but,  for  my  part,  I  don't  care  for  your  statu23que 
faces  ;  I  like  color— expression.  See  that  bright  little 
Grace  Oldtower  ! — a  thoroughly  English  rose  ; — I  like  her. 
Poor  Miss  Silver  !     I  wish " 

What,  out  of  compunction  for  a  certain  sharpness  with 
which  she  had  spoken,  Mrs.  Halifax  was  about  to  wish,  re- 
mained undeclared.  For,  just  this  minute  Guy  entered, 
and  leaning  his  handsome  head  and  his  tender  ^j6^/(7.v  soins 
over  the  "  English  rose,"  as  his  mother  called  her,  led  hei 
out  to  the  dancing. 

We  sat  down  and  looked  on. 


404  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"Guy  danced  lazily  ;  lie  is  rather  pale  too,  I  fancy/' 

"Tired,  probably.  He  was  out  far  too  long  on  the  ice 
to-day,  with  Maud  and  Miss  Silver.  What  a  pretty  crea- 
ture his  partner  is  !  "  added  Ursula,  thoughtfully. 

"  The  children  are  growing  up  fast,"  I  said. 

"  Ay,  indeed.  To  think  that  Guy  is  actually  twenty-one 
—the  age  when  his  father  was  married  ! " 

"  Guy  will  be  reminding  you  of  that  fact  some  day 
soon." 

Mrs.  Halifax  smiled.  "  The  sooner  the  better,  if  only  he 
makes  a  worthy  choice — if  only  he  brings  me  a  daughter 
whom  I  can  love." 

And  I  fancied  there  was  love — motherly  love — in  the  eyes 
that  follovv'ed  through  the  graceful  mazes  of  her  dancing 
the  bonny  English  rose. 

Guy  and  his  partner  sat  down  beside  us.  His  mother 
noticed  that  he  had  turned  very  pale  again,  and  the  lad 
owned  to  be  in  some  pain  :  he  had  twisted  his  foot  that 
morning,  in  helping  Maud  and  Miss  Silver  across  the  ice  ; 
but  it  was  a  mere  trifle — not  worth  mentioning. 

It  passed  over,  with  one  or  two  anxious  inquiries  on  the 
mother's  part,  and  a  soft,  dewy  shadow  over  the  down- 
dropped  cheek  of  the  little  Rose,  who  evidently  did  not 
like  to  think  of  any  harm  coming  to  her  old  play-fellovv'. 
Then  Sir  Herbert  appeared  to  lead  Mrs.  Halifax  in  to 
supper,  Guy  limped  along  with  pretty  Grace  on  his  arm, 
and  all  the  guests,  just  enough  to  fill  our  longest  table  in 
John's  study,  came  thronging  round  in  a  buzz  of  mirthful- 
ness. 

Either  the  warm,  hospitable  atmosphere,  or  the  sight  of 
the  merry  youngsters,  or  the  general  influence  of  social 
])leasantness,  had  for  the  time  being  dispelled  the  cloud. 
But  certainly  it  was  dispelled.  The  master  of  the  feast 
looked  down  two  long  lines  of  happy  faces — his  own  as 
bright  as  theirs — down  to  where,  at  the  foot  of  the  table, 
the  mother  and  mistress  sat.  She  had  been  sliglitly  nervous 
at  times  during  the  evening, -but  now  she  appeared  thor- 
oughly at  ease  and  glad — glad  to  see  her  husband  take  his 
place  at  the  head  of  his  own  hospitable  board,  in  the  midst 


JOHN    HALIFAX  405 

of  his  own  friends  and  his  own  people,  honored  and  beloved. 
It  seemed  a  good  omen — an  omen  that  the  bitter  things 
ontside  would  pass  away. 

How  bitter  they  had  been,  and  how  sore  the  wife's  heart 
still  felt,  I  could  see  from  the  jealous  way  in  which,  smiling 
and  cheerful  as  her  demeanor  was,  she  caught  every  look, 
every  word  of  those  around  her,  whicli  might  chance 
to  bear  reference  to  her  husband  ;  in  her  quick  avoidance 
of  every  tojoic  connected  with  these  disastrous  times,  and, 
above  all,  in  her  hurried  grasp  of  a  newspaper  that  some 
careless  servant  brought  in  fresh  from  the  night-mail,  wet 
with  sleet  and  snow. 

*'  Do  you  get  your  country  paper  regularly  ?  "  asked  some 
one  at  table.  And  then  some  others  appeared  to  recollect 
the  Norton  Bury  Mercury,  and  its  virulent  attacks  on  their 
host — for  there  ensued  an  awkward  pause,  during  which  I 
saw  Ursula's  face  beginning  to  burn.  But  she  conquered 
her  wrath. 

"  There  is  often  much  interest  in  our  })rovincial  papers, 
Sir  Herbert.  My  husband  makes  a  point  of  taking  them 
all  in — bad  and  good — of  every  shade  of  politics.  He  be- 
lieves it  is  only  by  hearing  all  sides  that  you  can  truly  judge 
of  the  state  of  the  country." 

"  Just  as  a  physician  must  hear  all  symptoms  before  he 
decides  on  the  patient's  case.  At  least,  so  our  good  old 
friend  Doctor  Jessop  used  to  say." 

"  Eh  ?"  said  Mr.  Jessop,  the  banker,  catching  his  own 
name,  and  waking  njo  from  a  brown  study,  in  whio-h  he  had 
seemed  to  see  nothing — except,  perhaps,  the  newspaper, 
which,  in  its  printed  cover,  lay  between  himself  and  Mrs. 
Halifax.  "  Eh  ?  did  any  one — Oh,  I  beg  pardon — beg  par- 
don— Sir  Herbert,"  hastily  added  the  old  man  ;  who  was 
a  very  meek  and  worthy  soul,  and  had  been  perhaps  more 
subdued  than  usual  this  evening. 

"  I  was  referring,"  said  Sir  Herbert,  with  his  usual  pon- 
derous civility,  "^'to  your  excellent  brother,  who  was  so 
much  respected  among  ns — for  which  respect,  allow  me  to 
say,  he  did  not  leave  us  without  an  inheritor." 

The  old  banker  answered  the  formal  bow  with  a  kind 


406  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

of  nervous  hurry  ;  and  then  Sir  Herbert,  with  a  loud  pre- 
mise  of  his  right  as  the  oldest  friend  of  our  family,  tried  to 
obtain  silence  for  the  customary  speech,  prefatory  to  the 
customary  toast  of  "  Health  and  j^rosperity  to  the  heir  of 
Beechwood." 

There  was  great  applause  and  filling  of  glasses  ;  great 
smiling  and  whisj)ering  ;  everybody  glancing  at  poor  Gruy, 
who  turned  red  and  white,  and  evidently  wished  liimself 
a  hundred  miles  off.  In  the  confusion,  I  felt  my  sleeve 
touched,  and  saw  leaning  towards  me,  hidden  by  Maud's 
laughing,  happy  face,  the  old  banker.  He  held  in  his  hand 
the  newspaper,  which  seemed  to  have  so  fascinated  him. 

"  It's  the  London  Gazette.  Mr.  Halifax  gets  it  three 
hours  before  any  of  us.  I  may  ojien  it  ?  It  is  important 
to  me.     Mrs.  Halifax  would  excuse,  eh  ?  " 

Of  course  she  would.  Especially  if  she  had  seen  the  old 
man's  look,  as  his  trembling  fingers  vainly  tired  to  unfold 
the  sheet  without  a  single  rustle's  betraying  his  surrepti- 
tious curiosity. 

Sir  Herbert  rose,  cleared  his  throat,  and  began. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  speak  as  a  father  myself,  and 
as  the  son  of  a  father  whom — whom  I  will  not  refer  to 
here,  except  to  say  that  his  good  heart  would  have  re- 
joiced to  see  this  day.  The  high  esteem  in  which  Sir  Ralph 
always  held  Mr.  Halifax,  has  descended,  and  will  descend — " 

Here  some  one  called  out — 

"  Mr.  Jessop  !     Look  at  Mr.  Jessop  !" 

The  old  man  had  suddenly  sunk  back,  with  a  sort  of 
choking  groan.  His  eyes  were  staring  blankly,  his  cheek 
was  the  color  of  ashes.  But  wlien  he  saw  every  one  look- 
ing at  him,  he  tried  desperately  to  recover  himself. 

"  'Tis  nothing.  Nothing  of  the  slightest  moment..  Eli  ?  '^ 
clutching  tightly  at  the  paper  which  Mrs.  Halifax  was  kindly 
removing  out  of  his  hand.  ''  There's  no  news  in  it — none, 
I  assure  you." 

But  from  his  agitation — from  the  pitiful  effort  he  made 
to  disguise  it — it  was  plain  enough  that  there  was  news. 
Plain,  also,  as  in  these  dangerous  and  critical  times  men 
were  only  too  quick  to  divine, — in  what   that  news  con- 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  407 

sisted.     Tidings  which  now  made  every  newspaper  a  sight 
of  fear, — especially  this — the  London  Gazette. 

Pxlwin  caught  and  read  the  fatal  page — the  fatal  column 
— known  only  too  well. 

"  W 's  have  stopped  payment. 

W 's  was  a  great  London  house,  the  favorite  banking- 
house  in  our  county,  with  wliich  many  provincial  banks, 
and  Jessop's  especially,  were  widely  connected,  and  would 
be  no  one  knew  how  widely  involved. 

"  W 's  stopped  payment ! " 

A  murmur — a  hush  of  momentary  suspense,  as  the 
Gazette  was  passed  hurriedly  from  hand  to  hand  ;  and 
then  our  guests,  one  and  all,  sat  looking  at  one  another  in 
breathless  fear,  suspit;ion,  or  assured  dismay.  For,  as  every 
one  was  aware  (we  knew  our  neiglibors'  alfairs  so  Avell  about 
innocent  Enderley),  there  was  not  a  single  household  of 
that  merry  little  company  upon  whom,  lu^ar  or  remote,  the 
blow  would  not  fall — cxce]it  ours. 

No  polite  disguise  could  gloss  over  the  general  conster- 
nation. Few  thought  of  Jessop — only  of  themselves. 
Many  a  father  turned  pale  ;  many  a  mother  melted  into 
smothered  tears.  More  than  one  honest  countenance  that 
five  minutes  before  had  beamed  like  the  rising  sun,  all 
friendliness  and  jocularity,  I  saw  shrink  into  a  wizened, 
worldly  face,  with  greedy  selfishness  peering  out  of  the 
corners  of  its  eyes,  eager  to  conceal  its  own  alarms  and  dive 
as  far  as  possible  into  the  terrors  of  its  neighbors. 

''There  will  boa  run  on  Jeseop's  bank  to-morrow,"  I 
heard  one  person  say,  glancing  to  where  the  poor  old  Ijanker 
still  sat,  with  a  vacant,  stupified  smile,  assuring  all  around 
him  that  "nothing  had  happened  ;  really,  nothing." 

"  A  run  ?  I  suppose  so.  Then  it  will  be  '  Sauve  qui 
pent/  and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost." 

"  What  say  you  to  all  this,  Mr.  Halifax  ?  " 

John  still  kept  his  place.  He  sat  perfectly  quiet,  and  had 
never  spoken  a  syllable. 

When  Sir  Herbert,  who  was  the  first  to  recover  from  the 
shock  of  these  ill-tidiugs,  called  him  by  his  name,  Mr.  Hali- 
fax looked  quickly  up.     It  was  to  see,  instead  of  those  two 


408  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

lines  of  happy  faces,  faces  already  gathering  in  troubled 
groups,  faces  angry,  sullen,  or  miserable,  all  of  which,  with 
a  vague  distrust,  seemed  instinctively  turned  upon  him, 

"Mr.  Halifax,"  said  the  baronet ;  and  one  could  see  how, 
in  spite  of  his  steadfast  politeness,  he  too  was  not  without 
his  anxieties — "  this  is  an  unpleasant  breaking-in  upon  your 
kindly  hospitalities.  I  suppose  through  this  unpropitious 
event,  each  of  us  must  make  up  our  minds  to  some  loss. 
Let  me  hope  yours  will  be  trifling." 

John  made  no  answer. 

"  Or,  perhaps — though  I  can  hardly  hope  anything  so 
fortunate — perhaps  this  failure  will  not  affect  you  at  all  ?  " 

He  waited — as  did  many  others,  for  Mr.  Halifax^s  reply  ; 
which  was  long  in  coming.  However,  since  all  seemed  to 
expect  it,  it  did  come  at  last ;  but  grave  and  sad  as  if  it 
were  the  announcement  of  some  great  misfortune. 

"  No,  Sir  Herbert ;  it  will  not  affect  me  at  all." 

Sir  Herbert,  and  not  he  alone — looked  surprised — uneasily 
surprised.  Some  mutters  there  were  of  "  congratulation." 
Then  arose  a  troubled  murmur  of  talking,  in  which  the 
master  of  the  house  was  forgotten  ;  until  the  baronet  said, 
"  My  friends,  I  think  we  are  forgetting  our  courtesy.  Al- 
low me  to  give  you  without  more  delay — the  toast  I  was 
about  to  propose, — '  Health,  long  life,  and  happiness  to  Mr. 
Guy  Halifax.'" 

And  so  poor  Guy's  birthday  toast  was  drunk  ;  almost  in 
silence  ;  and  the  few  words  he  said  in  acknowledgment  were 
just  listened  to,  scarcely  heard.  Every  one  rose  from  table, 
and  the  festivities  were  over. 

One  by  one  all  our  guests  began  to  make  excuse.  One 
by  one,  involuntarily  perhaps,  yet  not  the  less  painfully  and 
plainly,  they  all  shrunk  away  from  us,  as  if  in  the  universal 
trouble  we,  who  had  nothing  to  fear,  had  no  part  nor  lot. 
Formal  congratulations,  given  with  j^ale  lips  and  wandering 
eyes  ;  brusque  adieux,  as  some  of  the  more  honest  or  less 
courteous  showed  but  too  obviously  how  cruelly,  even  re- 
sentfully, they  felt  the  inequalities  of  fortune  ;  hasty  de- 
partures, full  of  a  dismay  that  rejected  angrily  every  shadow 
of  consolation  ; — all  things  John  had  to  meet  and  to  bear. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  409 

He  met  them  with  composure  ;  scarcely  speaking  a  word, 
as  indeed  wliat  was  there  to  say  ?  To  all  the  friendly 
speeches,  real  or  pretended,  he  listened  Avith  a  kind  of  sad 
gravity  :  of  all  harsher  words  than  these — and  there  were 
not  a  few — he  took  not  the  least  notice,  but  held  his  place 
as  master  of  the  house  ;  generously  deaf  and  blind  to  every- 
thing that  it  were  as  well  the  master  of  the  house  should 
neither  hear  nor  see. 

At  last  he  was  left,  a  very  Pariah  of  prosperity,  by  his 
own  hearth,  quite  alone. 

The  last  carriage  had  rolled  away  ;  the  tired  houseliold 
had  gone  to  bed  ;  tliei'e  was  no  one  in  the  study  but  me. 
John  came  in  and  stood  leaning  with  both  his  arms  against 
the  fire-place,  motionless  and  silent.  lie  leant  there  so 
long,  that  at  last  I  touched  him. 

''  Well,  Phineas  !  " 

I  saw  this  night's  events  had  wounded  him  to  the  core. 

''  Are  you  thinking  of  these  honest,  friendly,  disinter- 
ested guests  of  ours.  Don't !  They  are  not  worth  a  single 
thought. " 

*'  Not  an  angry  thought,  certainly."  And  he  smiled  at 
my  wrath — a  sad  smile. 

*' Ah,  Phineas  !  now  I  be;.':iu  to  understand  what  is  meant 
by  the  curse  of  prosperity. " 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  GEEAT;,  eager,  but  doggedly-quiet  crowd,  of  which  each 
had  his  or  her — for  it  was  half  women — individual  terror  to 
hide,  his  or  her  individual  interest  to  fight  for,  and  cared 
not  a  straw  for  that  of  any  one  else. 

It  was  market-day,  and  this  crowd  was  collected  and  col- 
lecting every  minute,  before  the  bank  at  Norton  Bury.  It 
included  all  classes,  from  the  stout  farmer's  wife,  or  mar- 
ket-woman, to  the  pale,  frightened  lady  of  "limited  in- 
come," who  had  never  been  in  such  a  tlirong  before  ;  from 
t]ie  aproned  mechanic  to  the  gentleman  who  sat  in  liis 
carriage  at  the  street  corner,  confident  that  whatever  poor 
chance  there  was,  his  would  be  the  best. 

Everybody  was,  as  I  have  said,  extremely  quiet.  You 
heard  none  of  the  jokes  tliat  always  rise  in  and  circulate 
through  a  crowd  ;  none  of  the  loud  outcries  of  a  mob.  All 
were  intent  on  themselves  and  their  own  business  ;  on  that 
fast-bolted  red-baize  door,  and  on  the  green  blind  of  the 
windows,  which  informed  them  that  it  was  "open  from 
ten  till  four." 

The  Abbey  clock  struck  three-quarters.  Then  there  was 
a  slight  stirring,  a  rustling  here  and  there  of  paper  as  some 
one  drew  out  and  examined  his  bank-notes  ;  ojaenly,  with 
small  fear  of  theft — they  were  not  wortli  stealing. 

John  and  I,  a  little  way  off,  stood  looking  on,  where  we 
had  once  watched  a  far  different  crowd  ;  for  Mr.  Jessop 
owned  the  doctor's  former  house,  and  in  sight  of  the  green 
Bank  blinds  were  my  dear  old  father's  well-known  windows. 

Guy's  birthday  had  fallen  on  a  Saturday.  This  was  Mon- 
day morning.  We  had  driven  over  to  Norton  Bury,  John 
and  I,  at  an  unusually  early  hour.  He  did  not  exactly  tell 
me  why,  but  it  was  not  difficult  to  guess.  Not  difficult  to 
perceive  how  strongly  he  was  interested,  even  affected — as 

410 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  411 

any  man,  knowing  all  the  circumstances,  could  not  but  be 
affected — by  the  sight  of  that  crowd,  all  the  sadder  for  its 
being  such  a  patient,  decent,  respectable  crowd,  out  of  which 
so  large  a  proportion  was  women. 

I  noticed  this  latter  fact  to  John. 

"  Yes,  I  was  sure  it  would  be  so.  Jessop's  bank  has  such 
a  number  of  small  depositors  and  issues  so  many  small  notes. 
He  cannot  cash  above  half  of  them  without  some  notice. 
If  there  comes  a  run,  he  may  have  to  stop  payment  this 
very  day  ;  and  then,  how  wide  the  misery  would  spread 
among  the  poor,  God  knows." 

His  eye  wandered  pitifully  over  the  heaving  mass  of  anx- 
ious faces,  blue  with  cold,  and  growing  more  and  more 
despondent  as  every  minute  they  turned  with  a  common 
impulse  from  the  closed  bank-door  to  tlie  Abbey  clock,  glit- 
tering far  up  in  the  sunshiny  atmosphere  of  morning. 

Its  finger  touched  the  one  heel  of  the  great  striding  X — 
glided  on  to  the  other — the  ten  strokes  fell  leisurely  and 
regularly  upon  the  clear,  frosty  air  ;  then  tbe  chimes — Nor- 
ton Bury  was  proud  of  its  Abbey  chimes — Imrst  out  in  the 
tune  of  ''Life  let  us  cherish." 

The  bells  went  through  all  the  tune,  to  the  very  last 
note — then  ensued  silence.  The  crowd  were  silent  too — 
almost  breathless  with  intent  listening — but  alas  !  not  to 
the  merry  Abbey  chimes. 

The  bank  door  remained  closed — not  a  rattle  at  the  bolts, 
not  a  clerk's  face  peering  out  above  the  blind.  The  house 
was  as  shut-up  and  desolate  as  if  it  were  entirely  empty. 

Five  whole  minutes — by  the  Abbey  clock — did  that  poor, 
patient  crowd  wait  on  the  pavement.  Then  a  murmur 
arose.  One  or  two  men  hammered  at  the  door ;  some 
frightened  women,  jostled  in  the  press,  began  to  scream. 

John  could  bear  it  no  longer.  "  Come  along  with  me,^^ 
he  said,  hurriedly.  "  I  must  see  Jessop — we  can  get  in  at 
the  garden  door." 

This  was  a  little  gate  round  the  corner  of  the  street,  well 
known  to  us  both  in  those  brief  '^  courting  days,"  when  we 
came  to  tea  of  evenings,  and  found  Mrs.  Jessop  and  Ursula 
March  in  the  garden  watering  the  plants  and  tying  up  the 


412  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

roses.  Nay,  we  passed  out  of  it  into  the  same  summer  par- 
lor, where — I  cannot  tell  if  John  ever  knew  of  the  incident, 
at  all  events  he  never  mentioned  it  to  me — there  had  been 
transacted  a  certain  momentous  event  in  Ursula's  life  and 
mine.  Entering  by  the  French  window,  there  rose  up  to 
my  mental  vision,  in  vivid  contrast  to  all  present  scenes, 
the  picture  of  a  young  girl  I  had  once  seen  sitting  there, 
with  head  drooped,  knitting.  Could  that  day  be  twenty- 
five  years  ago  ? 

No  summer  parlor  now — its  atmosphere  was  totally 
changed.  It  was  a  dull,  dusty  room,  of  which  the  only  lively 
object  was  a  large  fire,  the  under  half  of  Avhich  had  burnt 
itself  away  unstirred  into  black  dingy  caverns.  Before 
it,  with  breakfast  untasted,  sat  Josiah  Jessop — his  feet  on 
the  fender,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  the  picture  of  despair. 

"  Mr.  Jessop,  my  good  friend  ! "' 

"  No,  I  haven't  a  friend"  in  the  world,  or  shall  not  have, 
an  hour  hence.  Oh!  it's  you,  Mr.  Halifax? — You  have  not 
an  account  to  close  ?  You  don't  hold  any  notes  of  mine, 
do  you  ?  " 

John  put  his  hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder,  and  re- 
peated that  he  only  came  as  a  friend. 

"  Not  the  first  '  friend '  I  have  received  this  morning.  I 
knew  I  should  be  early  honored  with  visitors  ; "  and  the 
banker  attempted  a  dreary  smile.  "  Sir  Herbert  and  half- 
a-dozen  more  are  waiting  for  me  up-stairs.  The  biggest  fish 
must  have  the  first  bite — eh,  you  know  ?" 

"  I  know,"  said  John,  gloomily. 

"  Hark  !  those  people  outside  will  hammer  my  door  down  ! 
— Speak  to  them,  Mr.  Halifax — tell  them  I'm  an  old  man — 
that  I  was  always  an  honest  man — always.  If  only  they 
would  give  me  time — hark  I — just  hark  !  Heaven  help  me  ! 
do  they  want  to  tear  me  in  pieces  ?  " 

John  went  out  for  a  few  moments,  then  came  back  and 
sat  down  beside  Mr.  Jessoji. 

"  Compose  yourself  " — the  old  man  was  shaking  like  an 
aspen  leaf.  "  Tell  me,  if  you  have  no  objection  to  give  me 
this  confidence,  exactly  how  your  affairs  stand." 

With  a  gasp  of  helpless  thankfulness,  looking  up  in  John's 


JOHX    HALIFAX.  413 

face,  while  his  own  quivered  like  a  frightened  child's, — the 
banker  obeyed.     It  seemed  "  that  great  as  was  his  loss  by 

\Y 's  failure,  it  was  not  absolute  ruin  to  him.     In  effect, 

he  was  at  this  moment  perfectly  solvent,  and  by  calling  in 
mortgages,  &c.,  could  meet  both  the  accounts  of  the  gentry 
who  banked  with  him,  together  with  all  his  own  notes  now 
afloat  in  the  county,  principally  among  the  humbler  ranks, 
petty  tradespeople,  and  such  like, — if  oidy  both  classes  of 
customers  would  give  him  time  to  pay  them. 

"  But  they  will  nut.  There  will  be  a  run  upon  the  bank, 
and  then  all's  over  with  me.  It's  a  hard  case — solvent  as  I 
am — ready  and  able  to  pay  every  fartbing — if  only  I  had  a 
week's  time.  As  it  is  I  must  stop  payment  to-day.  Hark  ! 
they  are  at  the  door  !  Mr.  Halifax,  for  God's  sake  quiet 
them  ! " 

"  I  will  ;  only  tell  me  first  what  sum,  added  to  the  cash 
you  have  available,  would  keep  the  bank  open — just  for  a 
day  or  two." 

At  once  guided  and  calmed,  the  old  man's  business  facul- 
ties seemed  to  return.  He  began  to  calculate,  and  soon 
stated  the  sum  he  needed  :  I  think  it  was  three  or  four 
thousand  pounds. 

"  Very  well  ;  I  have  thought  of  a  plan.  But  first — those 
poor  fellows  outside. — Thank  Heaven,  I  am  a  rich  man,  and 
everybody  knows  it.     Phineas,  that  inkstand,  please." 

He  sat  down  and  wrote  :  curiously  the  attitude  and  man- 
ner reniinded  me  of  his  sitting  down  and  writing  at  my 
father's  table,  after  the  bread  riot — years  and  years  ago. 
Soon,  a  notice  signed  by  Josiah  Jessop,  and  afterwards  liy 
himself,  to  the  effect  that  the  bank  would  oj)en,  "  without 
fail,"  at  one  o'clock  this  day, — was  given  by  John  to  the 
astonished  clerk,  to  be  posted  at  the  window. 

A  responsive  cheer  outside  showed  how  readily  those  out- 
side had  caught  at  even  this  gleam  of  hope.  Also — hovr 
implicitly  they  trusted  in  the  mere  name  of  a  gentleman 
who  all  over  the  county  was  known  for  ''  his  word  being  as 
good  as  his  bond," — John  Halifax. 

The  banker  breathed  freer  ;  but  his  respite  was  short  :  an 
imperative  message  came  from  the  gentlemen  above  stairs 


414  JOHN"   HALIFAX. 

desiring  his  presence.  With  a  kind  of  blind  dependence,  he 
looked  towards  John. 

"  Let  me  go  in  your  stead.  You  can  trust  me  to  manage 
matters  to  the  best  of  my  j)ower  ?  "' 

Tlie  banker  overwhelmed  him  with  gratitude. 

"Nay,  that  ought  to  be  my  word,  standing  in  this  house 
and  remembering  " — His  eyes  turned  to  the  two  portraits — 
grimly-colored  daubs,  yet  with  a  certain  apology  of  likene^^s 
too,  which  broadly  smiled  at  one  another  from  opposite  walls 
— the  only  memorials  now  remaining  of  the  good  doctor  and 
his  cheery  little  old  wife.  "  Come,  Mr.  Jessop,  leave  the 
matter  with  me  ;  believe  me,  it  is  not  only  a  pleasure,  but  a 
duty." 

The  old  man  molted  into  senile  tears. 

I  do  not  know  how  John  managed  the  provincial  mag- 
nates, who  were  sitting  in  council  considering  how  best  to 
save,  first  themselves,  then  the  bank,  lastly — If  the  poor 
public  outside  had  been  made  acquainted  with  that  ominous 
"lastly!"  Or  if  to  the  respectable  conclave  above-stairs, 
who  would  have  recoiled  indignantly  at  the  vulgar  word 
"jobbing,"  had  been  hinted  a  phrase — Avhich  ran  oddly  in 
and  out  of  the  nooks  of  my  brain,  keeping  time  to  the  mur- 
mur in  the  street,  "  Vox popidi,  vox  del" — truly,  I  should 
have  got  little  credit  for  my  Latinity. 

John  came  out  in  about  half  an  hour,  with  a  cheerful 
countenance  ;  told  me  he  was  going  over  to  Coltham  for 
an  hour  or  two — would  I  wait  his  return  ? 

"  And  all  is  settled  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Will  be  soon,  I  trust.  I  can^t  stay  to  tell  yon  more  now. 
Good-bye." 

I  was  no  man  of  business,  and  could  assist  in  nothing. 
So  I  thought  the  best  I  could  do  was  to  pass  the  time  in 
wandering  up  and  down  the  familiar  garden,  idly  watching 
the  hoar-frost  on  the  arbutus  leaves,  and  on  the  dry  stems 
of  what  had  been  little  dear  Mrs.  Jessop's  favorite  roses 
— the  same  roses  I  had  seen  her  among  on  that  momentous 
evening — the  evening  when  Ursula's  bent  neck  flushed  more 
crimson  than  the  sunset  itself,  as  I  told  her  John  Halifax 
was  "■  too  noble  to  die  for  any  woman's  love." 


JOHlSr   HALIFAX.  415 

]S[o— he  had  lived  for  it — earned  it — won  it.  And  musing 
over  these  long-ago  times,  my  heart  melted — foolish  old 
heart  that  it  was  !  with  a  trembling  joy,  to  think  that 
Providence  had,  in  some  way,  used  my  poor  useless  hand  to 
give  to  him  this  blessing,  a  man's  chiefest  blessing,  of  a  virtu- 
ous and  loving  wife — which  had  crowned  his  life  for  all  these 
wonderful  years. 

As  it  neared  one  o'clock,  I  could  see  my  ancient  friend  the 
Abbey  clock  Avith  not  a  wrinkle  in  his  old  face,  staring  at  me 
througli  the  bare  Abbey  trees.  I  began  to  feel  rather  anx- 
ious. I  went  into  the  deserted  office  ;  and  thence,  none 
forbidding,  ensconced  myself  behind  the  sheltering  Bank 
blinds. 

The  crowd  had  scarcely  moved  ;  a  very  honest,  patient, 
weary  crowd,  dense  in  the  centre,  thinning  tow\ards  the 
edges.  On  its  extremest  verge,  waiting  in  a  curricle,  was 
a  gentleman,  who  seemed  observing  it  witli  a  lazy  curiosity. 
I,  having  like  himself  apparently  nothing  better  to  do,  ob- 
served this  gentleman. 

He  was  dressed  in  the  height  of  tlic  mode,  combined 
with  a  novel  and  eccentric  fashion,  Avhich  had  been  lately 
set  by  that  extraordinary  young  nobleman  Avhora  everybody 
talked  about— my  Lord  Byron.  His  neckcloth  Avas  loose, 
his  throat  bare,  and  his  hair  fell  long  and  untidy.  His  face, 
that  of  a  man  about  thirty — I  fancied  I  liad  seen  it  l^efore, 
but  could  not  recall  where — was  delicate,  thin,  with  an 
expression  at  once  cynical  and  melancholy.  He  sat  in  his 
carriage,  wrapped  in  furs,  or  looked  carelessly  out  on  the 
scene  before  him,  as  if  he  had  no  interest  therein — as  if  there 
Avas  nothing  in  life  worth  living  for. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  I  to  myself,  recalling  the  bright, 
busy,  laughing  faces  of  our  growing  up  lads,  recalling  espe- 
cially their  father's— full  of  all  that  active  energy  and  wise 
cheerfulness  which  gives  zest  to  existence  ;  God  forbid  any 
man  should  die  till  he  has  lived  to  learn  it  !— "poor  fellow  ! 
I  wish  his  moodiness  could  take  a  lesson  from  us  at  home  ! " 

But  the  gentleman  soon  retired  from  my  observation  un- 
der his  furs" !  for  the  sky  had  gloomed  over,  and  snow  began 
to  fall.     Those  on  the  pavement  shook  it  drearily  off,  and 


416  JOHJf    HALIFAX. 

kept  ti;rning  every  minute  to  the  abbey  clock— I  feared  it 
would  take  the  patience  of  Job  to  enable  them  to  hold  out 
another  quarter  of  an  hour. 

At  length  some  determined  hand  again  battered  at  the 
door.  I  fancied  I  heard  a  clerk  speaking  out  of  the  first- 
floor  window. 

"Gentlemen" — how  tremblingly  polite  the  voice  was — 
"  Gentlemen,  in  live  minutes — positively  five  minutes — the 
bank  will—" 

The  rest  of  the  speech  was  drowned  and  lost.  Dashing 
round  the  street  corner,  the  horses  all  in  a  foam,  came  our 
Beechwood  carriage.     Mr.  Halifax  leaped  out. 

"Well  might  the  crowd  divide  for  him — well  might  they 
cheer  him.  For  he  carried  a  canvas  bag — a  great,  ugly, 
grimy-colored  bag — a  precious,  precious  bag,  with  the 
consolation — j)erhaps  the  life — of  hundreds  in  it ! 

I  knew,  almost  by  intuition,  what  he  had  done — what, 
in  one  or  two  instances,  was  afterwards  done  by  other  rich 
and  generous  Englishmen,  during  the  crisis  of  this  year. 

The  bank  door  flew  open  like  magic.  The  crowd  came 
pushing  in  ;  but  when  John  called  out  to  them,  "  Good  peo- 
ple, pray  let  me  pass  ! "  they  yielded  and  suffered  him  to 
go  in  first.  He  went  right  up  to  the  desk  behind  which, 
flanked  by  a  tolerable  array  of  similar  canvas  bags,  full  of 
gold — but  nevertheless  waiting  in  mortal  fear,  and  as  white 
as  his  own  neckcloth — the  old  banker  stood. 

"  Mr.  Jessop,"  John  said,  in  a  loud,  distinct  voice,  that 
all  might  hear  him,  "^  I  have  the  pleasure  to  open  an  ac- 
count with  you.  I  feel  satisfied  that  in  these  dangerous 
times  no  credit  is  more  safe  than  yoars.  Allow  me  to  pay 
in  to-day  the  sum  of  five  thousand  pounds." 

"'  Five  thousand  pounds  I  " 

The  rumor  of  it  was  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
In  a  small  provincial  bank,  such  a  sum  seemed  unlimited. 
It  gave  universal  confidence.  Many  who  had  been  scram- 
bling, swearing,  almost  fighting,  to  reach  the  counter  and 
receive  gold  for  their  notes,  put  them  again  into  their 
pockets,  uncashed.  Others,  chiefly  women,  got  them 
cashed  with  a  trembling  hand— nay,  with  tears  of  joy.     A 


'  JOPIN    HALIFAX.  417 

few  who  had  come  to  close  accounts,  changed  their  minds, 
and  even  paid  money  in.  All  were  satisfied — the  run  upon 
the  bank  ceased. 

Mr.  Halifax  stood  aside,  looking  on.  After  the  first 
murmur  of  surprise  and  pleasure,  no  one  seemed  to  take 
any  notice  of  him,  or  of  what  he  had  done.  Only  one  old 
widow  woman,  as  she  slipped  three  bright  guineas  under 
the  lid  of  her  market-basket,  dropped  him  a  curtsey  in 
passing  by. 

"  It's  your  doing,  Mr.  Halifax.  The  Lord  reward  you, 
sir." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  shook  her  by  the  hand.  I 
thought  to  myself,  watching  tlie  many  that  came  and  went, 
unmindful,  "  only  this  Samarita)i  /" 

ISTo — one  person  more,  standing  by.  addressed  him  by 
name,  "  This  is  indeed  your  doing,  and  an  act  of  benevo- 
lence which  I  believe  no  man  alive  would  have  done,  except 
Mr.  Halifax."  And  the  gentleman  who  spoke — the  same 
I  had  seen  outside  in  his  curricle — held  out  a  friendly 
hand. 

"  I  see  you  do  not  remember  me.     My  name  is  Eavenel." 

"  Lord  Kavenel  !  " 

John  uttered  this  exclamation — and  no  more.  I  saw 
that  this  sudden  meeting  had  brought  back,  with  a  cruel 
tide  of  memory,  the  last  time  they  met — by  the  small 
nursery  bed,  in  tliat  upper  chamber  at  Enderley. 

However,  this  feeling  shortly  passed  away,  as  must  needs 
be  ;  and  we  all  three  began  to  converse  together. 

While  he  talked,  something  of  the  old  "  Anselmo"  came 
back  into  Lord  Ravenel's  face ;  especially  when  John 
asked  him  if  he  would  drive  over  with  us  to  Enderley. 

"  Enderley — how  strange  the  word  sounds  I — yet  I  should 
like  to  see  the  place  again.     Poor  old  Enderley  ! " 

Irresolutely — all  his  gestures  seemed  dreamy  and  irreso- 
lute— he  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes — the  same  white, 
long-fingered,  womanish  hand  which  had  used  to  guide 
Muriel's  over  the  organ  keys. 

''Yes— I  think  I  will  go  back  with  you  to  Enderley. 
But  first  I  must  speak  to  Mr.  Jessop  here." 


418  JOHN    HALIFAX.  ' 

It  was  about  some  poor  Catholic  families,  who,  as  we  had 
before  learnt,  had  long  been  his  pensioners. 

"  You  are  a  Catholic  still  then  ?  "  I  asked.  "  We  heard 
the  contrary." 

"  Did  you  ? — Oh,  of  course.  One  hears  such  wonderful 
facts  about  oneself.  Probably  you  heard  also,  that  I  have 
been  to  the  Holy  Land,  and  turned  Jew — called  at  Constan- 
tinople, and  come  back  a  Mahommedan." 

'"  But  are  you  of  your  old  faith  ?"  John  said.  "  Still 
a  sincere  Catholic  ?  " 

"  If  you  take  Catholic  in  its  original  sense,  certainly.  I 
am  a  Universalist.  I  believe  everything — and  nothing. 
Let  us  change  the  subject.''  The  contemptuous  scepticism 
of  his  manner  altered,  as  he  enquired  after  Mrs.  Halifax 
and  the  children.  "  No  longer  children  now,  I  sup- 
pose ?  "' 

"  Scarcely.  Guy  and  Walter  are  as  tall  as  yourself  ;  and 
my  daughter — " 

"  Your  daughter  ?  " — with  a  start — "  oh  yes,  I  recollect. 
Baby  Maud.     Is  she  at  all  like — like — " 

''No.*' 

Neither  said  more  than  this  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  their 
hearts  warmed  to  one  another,  knitted  by  the  same  tender 
remembrance. 

We  drove  home.  Lord  Ravenel  muffled  himself  up  in 
his  furs,  complaining  bitterly  of  the  snow  and  sleet. 

''Yes,  the  winter  is  setting  in  sharply,"  John  replied, 
as  he  reined  in  his  horses  at  the  turnpike  gate.  "This 
will  be  a  hard  Christmas  for  many." 

"  Ay,  indeed,  sir,"  said  the  gate-keeper,  touching  his 
hat.  "  And  if  I  might  make  so  bold — it's  a  dark  night  and 
the  road's  lonely  " — he  added  in  a  mysterious  whisper. 

"  Thank  you,  my  friend.  I  am  aware  of  all  that."  But 
as  John  drove  on,  he  remained  for  some  time  very  silent. 

On,  across  the  bleak  country,  with  the  snow  j^elting  in 
our  faces — along  roads  so  deserted,  that  our  carriage-wheels 
made  the  only  sound  audible,  and  that  might  have  been 
heard  distinctly  for  miles. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  horses  were  j^uUed  up.     Three  or. 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  419 

four  ill-looking  figures  had  started  out  ot  a  ditch-bank,  and 
caught  hold  of  the  reins. 

"  Halloa  there  !— AVhat  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  iloney." 

"  Let  go  my  horses  !  They're  spirited  beasts.  You'll 
get  trampled  on." 

"  Who  cares  ?  " 

This  brief  colloquy  passed  in  less  than  a  minute.  It 
showed  at  once  our  position — miles  away  from  any  house — 
on  this  desolate  moor  ;  showed  plainly  our  danger — John's 
danger. 

He  himself  did  not  seem  to  recognize  it.  He  stood  up- 
right on  the  .box  seat,  the  whip  in  his  hand. 

"  Get  away,  you  fellows,  or  I  must  drive  over  you  !" 

"  Thee'd  better  ! "  AVith  a  yell  one  of  the  men  leaped 
up  and  clung  to  the  neck  of  the  plunging  mare — then  was 
dashed  to  the  ground  betAveen  her  feet.  The  poor  wretch 
uttered  one  groan  and  no  more.  John  sprang  out  of  his 
carriage,  caught  the  mare's  head,  and  backed  her. 

"  Hold  off  I — the  poor  fellow  is  killed,  or  may  be  in  a 
minute.     Hold  off,  I  say." 

If  ever  these  men,  planning  perhaps  their  first  ill  deed, 
were  struck  dumb  with  astonishment,  it  was  to  seethe  gen- 
tleman they  were  intending  to  rob  take  up  their  comrade 
in  his  arms,  drag  him  towards  the  carriage-lamps,  rub  snow 
on  his  face,  and  chafe  his  heavy  hands.  But  all  in  vain. 
The  blood  trickled  down  from  a  Avound  in  the  temples — 
the  head,  with  its  open  mouth  dropping,  fell  back  upon 
John's  knee. 

"  He  is  quite  dead." 

The  others  gathered  round  in  silence,  watching  Mr. 
Halifax,  as  he  still  knelt,  with  the  dead  man's  head  lean- 
ing against  him,  mournfully  regarding  it. 

"  I  think  I  know  him.     Where  does  his  wife  live  ?  " 

Some  one  pointed  across  the  moor,  to  a  light,  faint  as  a 
glow-worm.  "  Take  that  rug  out  of  my  carriage — wrap 
him  in  it."  The  order  was  at  once  obeyed.  "Now  carry 
him  home.     I  will  follow  presently." 

"  Surely  not,"  expostulated  Lord  Ravenel,  who  had  got 


420  JOHN"    HALIFAX. 

out  of  the  carriage  and  stood,  shivering  and  much  shocked, 
beside  Mr.  Halifax.  "  You  would  not  surely  put  yourself 
in  the  power  of  these  scoundrels  ?  What  brutes  they  are 
— the  lower  orders  ! " 

"  Not  altogether — when  you  know  them.  Phineas,  will 
you  drive  Lord  Eavenel  on  to  Beechwood  ?" 

"  Excuse  me — certainly  not/'  said  Lord  Eavenel,  with 
dignity.  "  AVe  will  stay  to  see  the  result  of  the  affair. 
What  a  singular  man  Mr.  Halifax  is,  and  always  was,"  he 
added,  thoughtfully,  as  he  muffled  himself  up  again  in  his 
furs,  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

Soon,  following  the  track  of  those  black  figures  across 
the  snow,  we  came  to  a  cluster  of  peat  huts,. alongside  of 
the  moorland  road.  John  took  one  of  the  carriage-lamps 
in  his  hand,  and  went  in,  without  saying  a  word.  To  my 
surprise  Lord  Eavenel  presently  dismounted  and  followed 
him.  I  Avas  left  with  the  reins  in  my  hand,  and  two  or 
three  of  those  ill-visaged  men  hovering  about  the  carriage  ; 
but  no  one  attempted  to  do  me  any  harm.  Nay,  when 
John  reappeared,  after  a  lapse  of  some  minutes,  one  of 
them  civilly  picked  up  the  whip  and  put  it  into  his 
hand. 

"  Thank  you.  Now,  my  men,  tell  me  what  did  you  want 
with  me  just  now  ?  " 

"  Money,"  cried  one.     "  Work,"  shouted  another. 

"  And  a  likely  way  you  went  about  to  get  it  !  Stopping 
me  in  the  dark,  on  a  lonely  road,  just  like  common  robbers. 
I  did  not  think  any  Enderley  men  would  have  done  a  thing 
so  cowardly." 

"  We  bean't  cowards,"  v/as  the  surly  answer.  "  Thee 
carries  pistols,  Mr.  Halifax." 

"  You  forced  me  to  do  it.  My  life  is  as  precious  to  my 
wife  and  children,  as — as  that  poor  fellow's  to  his." — John 
stopped.  "  God  hel]D  us,  my  men  !  it's  a  hard  world  for 
us  all  sometimes.  Why  did  you  not  know  me  better  ? 
Why  not  come  to  my  house  and  ask  honestly  for  a  dinner 
and  a  half  crown  ? — you  should  have  both,  any  day." 

"Thank'ee,  sir,"  was  the  general  cry.  '"And,  sir," 
begged  one  old  man,  *•'  you'll  hush  up  the  'crowner's  'quest 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  421 

—you  and  this  gentleman  here.     You  won't  put  us  in  Jail, 
for  taking  to  the  road,  Mr.  Halifax  ?  " 

"  No  ; — unless  yoa  attack  nie  again.  But  I  am  not  afraid 
— I'll  trust  you.  Look  here  ! "  He  took  the  pistol  out  of 
his  breast-pocket,  cocked  it,  and  fired  its  two  barrels  harm- 
lessly into  the  air.  "  Now,  good-night ;  and  if  ever  I  carry 
fire-arms  again,  it  will  be  your  fault,  not  mine." 

So  saying,  he  held  the  carriage-door  open  for  Lord  Eu- 
venel,  who  took  liis  place  with  a  subdued  and  thouglitful 
air  :  then  mounting  tlie  box-seat,. Tohn  drove,  in  somcwliiit 
melancholy  silence,  across  the  snowy  starlit  moors  to  Beech 
wood. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

I]sr  the  home-light. 

It  was  a  scene — glowing  almost  as  those  evening  pictures 
at  Longfield.  Those  pictures,  photographed  on  memory 
by  the  summer  sun  of  our  lives,  and  which  no  paler  after- 
sun  could  have  power  to  reproduce.  Xothing  earthly  is 
ever  reproduced  in  the  same  form.  I  suppose  heaven  meant 
it  to  be  so  ;  that  in  the  perpetual  progression  of  our  exist- 
ence, we  should  be  reconciled  to  loss,  and  taught  that 
change  itself  is  but  another  form  for  aspinitioii.  Aspiration, 
which  never  can  rest,  or  ought  to  rest,  in  anything  short  of 
the  One  absolute  Perfection — the  One  all-satisfying  Good, 
"in  wJiom  is  no  variableness,  neither  shadow  of  turning." 

I  say  this  to  excuse  myself  for  thoughts,  which  at  times 
made  me  grave — even  in  the  happy  home-light  of  John's 
study  ;  where,  for  several  weeks  after  the  last  incident 
I  have  recorded,  the  family  were  in  the  habit  of  gathering 
every  evening.  For  poor  Guy  was  a  captive.  The  "  mere 
trifle  "  had  turned  out  to  be  a  sprained  foot,  which  happen- 
ing to  a  tall  and  strong  young  man  became  serious.  He 
bore  his  imprisonment  restlessly  enough  at  first,  but  after- 
wards grew  more  reconciled — took  to  reading,  drawing,  and 
society — and  even  began  to  interest  himself  in  the  pursuits 
of  his  sister  Maud,  who  every  morning  had  her  lessons  in 
the  studv. 

Miss  Silver  first  proposed  this.  She  had  evinced  more 
feeling  than  was  usual  to  her,  since  Guy's  accident  ;  showed 
him  many  little  feminine  kindnesses — out  of  compunction, 
it  seemed  ;  and  altogether  was  much  improved.  Of  even- 
ings, as  now,  she  always  made  one  of  the  "  young  people," 
who  were  generallv  grouped  together  round  Guy's  sofa — 

423 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  423 

Edwin,  Walter,  and  little  Maud.  The  father  and  mother 
Bat  opposite — as  usual,  side  by  side,  he  with  his  newspaper, 
she  with  her  work.  Or  sometimes  falling  into  pleasant 
idleness,  they  would  slip  liaiid  in  hand,  and  sit  talking  to 
one  another  in  an  under-tone,  or  silently  and  smilingly 
watch  the  humors  of  their  children. 

For  me,  I  generally  took  to  my  nook  in  the  chimney- 
corner — it  was  a  very  ancient  lire-place,  with  settles  on 
each  side,  and  dogs  instead  of  a  grate,  upon  which  many  a 
faggot  hissed  and  crackled  its  merry  brief  life  away,  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  cheery  and  comfortable  than  this  old- 
fashioned,  low-roofed  room,  three  sides  of  Avliich  were 
peopled  with  books — all  the  books  which  John  had  gathered 
up  during  the  course  of  his  life.  Perhaps  it  was  their  long- 
familiar,  friendly  faces,  whicli  made  this  his  favorite  rocun 
his  own  especial  domain.  But  he  did  not  keep  it  tabooed 
rrotn  his  family  ;  he  liked  to  have  them  about  him,  even 
in  his  studious  hours. 

So,  of  evenings,  we  all  sat  together  as  now,  each  busy, 
and  none  interruj^ting  the  rest.  At  intervals,  flashes  of 
talk  or  laughter  broke  out,  cliiefly  from  Guy,  Walter,  or 
Maud,  when  Edwin  would  look  up  from  his  everlasting- 
book,  and  even  the  grave  governess  relax  into  a  smile. 
Since  she  had  learnt  to  smile,  it  became  nu:)i'e  and  more  ap- 
parent how  very  handsome  Miss  Silver  was.  "  Handsome" 
is,  I  think,  the  fittest  word  for  her  ;  that  correctness  of 
form  and  color,  which  attracts  the  eye  chiefly,  and  perhaps 
the  eye  of  men  rather  than  of  women  ;  at  least,  Mrs.  Halifax 
eoukt  never  be  brought  to  see  it.  But  then  her  peculiar 
taste  was  for  slender,  small  brunettes,  like  Grace  Oldtower  ; 
whereas  Miss  Silver  was  large  and  fair. 

Fair,  in  every  sense,  most  decidedly.  And  now  that  she 
evidently  began  to  pay  a  little  more  attention  to  her  dress 
and  her  looks,  we  found  out  that  she  was  also  young. 

"  Only  twenty-one  to-day,  Guy  says,"  I  remarked  one 
day  to  Ursula. 

•'  How  did  Guy  know  it  ?" 

'^'I  believe  he  discovered  the  wonderful  secret  from 
Maud." 


424  JOHN    HALIFAX. 


a 


Maud   and    her  brother  Guy  have  grown  wonderful 
friends  since  his  illness.     Do  you  not  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  found  the  two  of  them — and  even  Miss  Silver — 
as  merry  as  possible,  when  I  came  into  the  study   this 


morning." 


"Did  you  ? ''  said  the  mother,  with  an  involuntary  glance 
at  the  group  opposite. 

There  was  nothing  particular  to  observe.  They  all  sat 
in  most  harmless  quietude,  Edwin  reading,  Maud  at  his 
feet,  playing  with  the  cat.  Miss  Silver  busy  at  a  piece  of 
that  delicate  muslin-work  with  which  young  w^omen  then 
used  to  ornament  their  gowns.  Guy  had  been  drawing  a 
pattern  for  it,  and  now  leant  back  upon  his  sofa,  shading 
off  the  fire  with  his  hand,  and  from  behind  it  gazing,  as  I 
had  often  seen  him  gaze  lately,  with  a  curious  intentness — 
at  the  young  governess. 

"  Guy,"  said  his  mother  (and  Guy  started),  '^  what  were 
you  thinking  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  ;  that  is — "  here  by  some  accident.  Miss 
Silver  quitted  the  room.  "  Mother,  come  over  here,  I 
want  your  opinion.  There,  sit  down — though  it's  nothing 
of  the  least  importance." 

Nevertheless  it  was  with  some  hesitation  that  he  brought 
out  the  mighty  question,  namely,  that  it  was  Miss  Silver's 
birthday  to-day  ;  that  he  thought  we  ought  to  remember  it, 
and  give  her  some  trifle  as  a  present. 

"And  I  was  considering,  this  large  '  Flora'  I  ordered 
from  London, — she  would  like  it  extremely  :  she  is  so  fond 
of  botany." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  botany  ?  "  said  Edwin,  sharply 
and  rather  irrelevantly  as  it  seemed,  till  I  remembered  liow 
he  plumed  himself  upon  his  knowledge  of  this  science,  and 
how  he  had  persisted  in  taking  Maud,  and  her  governess- 
also,  long  wintry  walks  across  the  country,  "in  order  to 
study  the  cryptogamia." 

Guy  vouchsafed  no  answer  to  his  brother  ;  he  was  tooi 
much  absorbed  in  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  beautiful. 
Flora  on  his  knee. 

*•  What   do   you   say,    all   of  you  ?     Father,  don't   you; 


JOHN^    HALIFAX.  425 

think  slio  would  like  it  ?  Then  suppose  you  give  it  to 
her  ?  " 

At  this  inopportune  moment  Miss  Silver  returned. 

She  might  have  been  aware  that  she  was  under  discus- 
sion— at  least  so  much  of  discussion  as  was  implied  by 
(iuy's  eager  words  and  his  mother's  silence,  for  she  looked 
around  her  uneasily,  and  was  about  to  retire. 

"  Do  not  go,"  Guy  exclaimed,  anxiously. 

"  Pray  do  not,"  his  mother  added  ;  "we  were  just  talk- 
ing about  you.  Miss  Silver.  My  son  hopes  you  will  accept 
tliis  book  from  him,  and  from  us  all,  with  all  kind  birthday 
wishes." 

And  rising,  with  a  little  more  gravity  than  washer  wont. 
Mrs.  Halifax  touched  the  girl's  forehead  witli  her  lips,  and 
gave  her  the  present. 

Miss  Silver  colored  and  drew  back.  "  You  are  very 
good,  but  indeed  I  would  much  rather  not  have  it." 

"  Why  so  ?  Do  you  dislike  gifts,  or  this  gift  in  par- 
ticular ?  " 

'■'  Oh,  no  ;  certainly  not." 

"  Then,"  said  John,  as  he  too  came  forward  and  shook 
hands  with  her  with  an  air  of  hearty  kindness,  '•  pray  take 
the  book.  Do  let  us  show  how  much  Ave  respect  you  ;  how 
entirely  we  regard  you  as  one  of  the  family." 

Guy  turned  a  look  of  grateful  pleasure  to  his  father  ;  but 
Miss  Silver,  coloring  more  than  ever,  still  held  back. 

"No,  I  cannot ;  indeed  I  cannot." 

"  Why  can  you  not  ?  " 

"  For  several  reasons." 

*'Give  me  only  one  of  them — as  much  as  can  be  expected 
from  a  young  lady,"  said  Mr.  Halifax,  good-liumoredl3\ 

"  Mr.  Guy  ordered  the  Flora  for  himself.  I  must  not 
.allow  him  to  renounce  his  pleasure  for  me." 

"  It  would  not  be  renouncing  it  if  you  had  it,"  returned 
the  lad,  in  a  low  tone,  at  which  once  more  his  younger 
brother  looked  up,  angrily. 

"  What  folly  about  nothing  !  how  can  one  read  with  such 
a  clatter  going  on  ?  " 

"  You  old  book-worm  !  you  care  for  nothing  and  nobody 


426  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

but  yourself,"  Guy  answered  laughing.  But  Edwin,  really 
incensed,  rose  and  settled  himself  in  the  far  corner  of  the 
room. 

"  Edwin  is  right,"  said  the  father,  in  a  tone  which  in- 
dicated his  determination  to  end  the  discussion,  a  tone 
which  even  Miss  Silver  obeyed.  "  My  dear  young  lady,  I 
hope  you  will  like  your  book  ;  Guy,  write  her  name  in  it 
at  once." 

Guy  willingly  obeyed,  but  was  a  good  while  over  the 
task  ;  his  mother  came  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"Louisa  Eugenie^iow  did  you  know  that,  Guy  ?  Lou- 
isa Eugenie  Sil is  that  your  name,  my  dear  ?" 

The  question,  simple  as  it  was,  seemed  to  throw  the 
governess  into  much  confusion,  even  agitation.  At  last  she 
drew  herself  up  with  the  old  repulsive  gesture,  which  of 
late  had  been  slowly  wearing  off. 

"  No — I  will  not  deceive  you  any  longer.  My  right  name 
is  Louise  Eugenie  d' Argent." 

Mrs.  Halifax  started.     "  Are  you  a  Frenchwoman  ?" 

"  On  my  father's  side — yes." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  so  ?  " 

"  Because,  if  you  remember,  at  our  first  interview,  you 
said  no  Frenchwoman  should  educate  your  daughter.  And 
I  was  homeless — friendless." 

"  Better  starve  than  tell  a  falsehood,"  cried  the  mother 
indignantly. 

"  I  told  no  falsehood.  You  never  asked  me  of  my  pa- 
rentage." 

"Nay,"  said  John,  interfering,  "you  must  not  speak  in 
that  manner  to  Mrs.  Halifax.  Why  did  you  renounce  your 
father's  name  ?  " 

"  Because  English  people  would  have  scouted  my  father's 
daughter.  You  knew  him — everybody  knew  him — he  was 
D' Argent  the  Jacobin — D'Argent  the  Eouge," 

She  threw  out  these  words  defiantly,  and  quitted  the 
room. 

"This  is  a  dreadful  discovery.  Edwin,  you  have  seen 
most  of  her — did  you  ever  imagine — " 

"  I  knew  it,   mother,"  said  Edwin,  without  lifting  hig 


JOHN    HAI^IFAX.  427 

eyes  from  his  book.     "After  all,   French   or  English,  it 
makes  no  difference." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed!"  cried  Guy,  angrily. 
"Whatever  her  father  is,  if  anyone  dared  to  think  the 
worse  of  her — " 

"  Hush  I  -Lill  another  time,"  said  the  father,  with  a 
glance  at  Maud,  who  with  wide-open  eyes,  in  which  the 
tears  were  just  springing,  had  been  listening  to  all  these 
revelations  about  her  governess. 

But  Maud's  tears  were  soon  stopped,  as  well  as  this  pain- 
ful conversation,  by  the  entrance  of  our  daily,  or  rather 
nightly,  visitor  for  these  six  weeks  past.  Lord  Tavenel. 
His  presence,  always  welcome,  was  a  great  relief  now.  "We 
never  discussed  family  affairs  before  people.  The  boys  be- 
gan to  talk  to  Lord  Ravenel  :  and  Maud  took  her  privileged 
place  on  a  footstool  beside  him.  From  the  first  sight  she 
had  been  his  favorite,  he  said,  because  of  her  resemblance 
to  Muriel.  But  I  think,  more  than  any  fancied  likeness  to 
that  sweet  lost  face,  which  he  never  spoke  of  without  ten- 
derness inexpressible,  there  was  something  in  Maud's  buoy- 
ant youth — just  between  childhood  and  girlhood,  having 
the  charms  of  one  and  the  immunities  of  the  other — which 
was  especially  attractive  to  this  man,  who,  at  three-and- 
thirty,  found  life  a  weariness  and  a  burthen — at  least,  he 
said  so. 

Life  was  never  either  weary  or  burthensome  in  our  house 
— not  even  to-night,  though  our  friend  found  us  less  lively 
than  usual — though  John  maintained  more  than  his  usual 
silence,  and  Mrs.  Halifax  fell  into  troubled  reveries.  Guy 
and  Edwin,  both  considerably  excited,  argued  and  contra- 
dicted one  another  more  warmly  than  even  the  Beecliwood 
liberty  of  speech  allowed.  For  Miss  Silver,  she  did  not 
appear  again. 

Lord  Eavenel  seemed  to  take  these  slight  desagremens 
very  calmly.  He  stayed  his  customary  time,  smiling  lan- 
guidly as  ever  at  the  boys'  controversies,  or  listening  with 
a  half -pleased,  half -melancholy  laziness  to  Maud's  gay  prat- 
tle, his  eye  following  her  about  the  room  with  the  privileged 
tenderness  that  twenty  years'  seniority  allows  a  man  to  feei 


428  JOHN"    HALIFAX, 

and  show  towards  a  child.  At  his  wonted  hour  he  rode 
away,  sighingly  contrasting  pleasant  Beechwood  with  dreary 
and  solitary  Luxmore, 

After  his  departure,  we  did  not  again  close  round  the  fire, 
Maud  vanished  ;  tlie  younger  boys  also  ;  Guy  settled  him- 
self on  his  sofa,  having  first  taken  the  pains  to  limp  across 
the  room  and  fetch  the  Flora,  which  Edwin  had  carefully 
stowed  away  in  the  book-case.  Then  making  himself  com- 
fortable, as  the  pleasure-loving  lad  liked  well  enough  to  do, 
he  lay  dreamily  gazing  at  the  title-page,  where  was  written 
her  name,  and  ''■  From  Guy  Halifax,  Avith — " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  add,  my  son  ?" 

He,  glancing  up  at  his  mother,  made  her  no  answer,  and 
hastily  closed  the  book. 

She  looked  hurt  ;  but  saying  nothing  more,  began  moving 
about  the  room,  putting  things  in  order  before  retiring. 
John  sat  in  the  arm  chair — meditative.  She  asked  him 
what  he  was  thinking  about  ? 

"  About  that  man,  Jacques  d' Argent,'* 

"  You  have  heard  of  him,  then  ?" 

"  Few  had  not,  twenty  years  ago.  He  was  one  of 
the  most  '  blatant  beasts '  of  the  Eeign  of  Terror,  A 
fellow  without  honesty,  conscience,  or  even  common 
decency,'' 

"  And  that  man's  daughter  we  have  had  in  our  house, 
teaching  our  innocent  child  I  " 

Alarm  and  disgust  were  written  on  every  feature  of  the 
mother's  face.  It  was  scarcely  surprising.  Now  that  the 
ferment  which  had  convulsed  society  in  our  younger  days 
was  settling  down, — though  still  we  were  far  from  that  ulti- 
mate calm  which  enables  posterity  to  Judge  fully  and  fairly 
such  a  remarkable  historical  crisis  as  the  French  Revolution 
— most  English  people  looked  back  with  horror  on  the  ex- 
treme opinions  of  that  time.  If  ^Irs.  Halifax  had  a  weak 
point,  it  was  her  prejudice  against  anything  French  or  Ja- 
cobinical. Partly  from  that  tendency  to  moral  conversa- 
tion which  in  most  persons,  especially  women,  strengthens 
as  old  age  advances  ;  partly,  I  believe,  from  the  terrible 
warning  given  by  the  fate  of  one — of  whom  for  years  we 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  429 

had  never  heard — wliose  very  name  was  either  unknown  to 
or  forgotten  by,  our  children. 

"  John,  can't  you  speak?  Don't  you  seethe  frightful 
danger  ?  " 

"  Love,  try  and  be  calmer." 

"  How  can  I  ?     Remember — remember  Caroline." 

"  Nay,  we  are  not  talking  of  her,  but  of  a  girl  whom  we 
know,  and  have  had  good  opportunity  of  knowing.  A 
girl,  who,  whatever  may  have  been  her  antecedents,  has 
lived  for  six  months  blamelessly  in  our  house." 

"  Would  to  heaven  she  had  never  entered  it !  But  it  is 
not  too  late.     She  may  leave — she  shall  leave,  immediately." 

"  Mother  !  "  burst  out  Guy.  Never  since  she  bore  him, 
had  his  mother  heard  her  name  uttered  in  such  a  tone. 

She  stood  petrified. 

"  Mother,  you  are  unjust,  heartless,  cruel.  She  shall 
not  leave  ;  she  shall  not,  I  say  ! " 

"  Guy,  how  dare  you  speak  to  your  mother  in  that  way  ?  " 

^' Yes,  father,  I  dare.     I'll  dare  anything  rather  than — " 

"  Stop.  Mind  what  you  are  saying — or  you  may  repent 
it." 

And  Mr.  Halifax,  speaking  in  that  low  tone  to  which  his 
voice  fell  in  serious  displeasure,  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  the 
lad's  shoulder.  Father  and  son  exchanged  fiery  glances. 
The  mother,  terrified,  rushed  between  them. 

"  Don't  John  !  Don't  be  angry  Avith  him.  He  could 
not  help  it, — my  jDoor  boy  ! " 

At  her  piteous  look,  Guy  and  his  father  both  drew  back. 
John  put  his  arm  round  his  wife,  and  made  her  sit  down. 
She  was  trembling  exceedingly. 

"  You  see,  Guy,  how  wrong  you  have  been.  How  could 
you  wound  your  mother  so  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  wound  her,"  the  lad  answered.  "  I 
only  wished  to  prevent  her  from  being  unjust  and  unkind 
to  one  to  whom  she  must  show  all  justice  and  kindness. 
One  whom  I  respect,  esteem — whom  I  Jove." 

"  Love  ! " 

"Yes,  mother  !  Yes,  father  !  I  love  her.  I  intend  to 
marry  her." 


430  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Guy  said  tliis  with  an  air  of  quiet  determination,  very 
different  from  the  usual  impetuosity  of  his  character.  It 
was  easy  to  perceive  that  a  great  change  had  come  over 
him  ;  that  in  this  passion,  the  silent  growth  of  which  no 
one  had  suspected,  he  was  most  thorouglily  in  earnest. 
From  the  boy  he  had  suddenly  started  up  into  the  man  ; 
and  his  parents  saw  it. 

They  looked  at  him,  and  then  mournfully  at  one  another. 
The  father  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  All  this  is  very  sudden.  You  should  have  told  us  of 
it  before. " 

"  I  did  not  know  it  myself  till — till  very  lately,"  the 
youth  answered  more  softly,  lowering  his  head  and  blush- 
ing. 

"  Is  Miss  Silver — is  the  lady  aware  of  it  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  That  is  well,"  said  the  father,  after  a  pause.  "  In 
this  silence  you  have  acted  as  an  honorable  lover  should, 
towards  her  ;  as  a  dutiful  son  should  act  towards  his 
parents." 

Guy  looked  pleased.  He  stole  his  hand  nearer  his 
mother's,  but  she  neither  took  it  nor  repelled  it ;  she  seemed 
quite  stunned. 

At  this  point  I  noticed  that  Maud  had  crept  into  the 
room  ; — I  sent  her  out  again  as  quickly  as  I  could.  Alas  ! 
this  was  the  first  secret  that  needed  to  be  kept  from  her  ; 
the  first  painful  mystery  in  our  happy,  happy  home  ! 

In  any  such  home  the  ''  first  falling  in  love,"  whether  of 
son  or  daughter,  necessarily  makes  a  great  change.  Greater 
if  the  former  than  the  latter.  There  is  often  a  ])itiful 
truth — I  know  not  why  it  should  be  so,  but  so  it  is — in  tlie 
foolish  rhyme,  which  the  mother  had  laughingly  said  over 
to  me  this  morning  ! — 

"  My  son's  my  son  till  he  gets  him  a  wife. 
My  daughter's  my  daughter  all  her  life." 

And  when,  as  in  this  case,  the  son  wishes  to  marry  one 
whom  liis  father  may  not  wholly  approve,  whom  his  mother 
does  not  heartily  love,  surely  the  pain  is  deepened  tenfold 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  431 

Those  wlio  in  tlie  dazzled  vision  of  youth  see  only  the 
beauty  and  splendor  of  love — first  love,  who  deem  it  com- 
prises the  wliole  of  life,  beginning,  aim,  and  end — may  mar- 
vel that  I,  who  have  been  young,  and  now  um  old,  see  as 
I  saw  that  night,  not  only  the  lover's,  but  the  parents'  side 
of  the  question.  I  felt  overwhelmed  with  sadness,  as,  view- 
ing the  three,  I  counted  up  in  all  its  bearings  and  con- 
sequences, near  and  remote,  this  attachment  of  poor  Guy's. 

"  Well,  father,"  he  said  at  last,  guess^ing  l)y  intuition  that 
the  father's  heart  would  best  understand  liis  own. 

''  Well,  my  son."  John  answered,  sadly. 

"  You  were  young  once." 

"  So  I  was  ;  "  with  a  tender  glance  upon  the  lad's  heated 
and  excited  countenance.  "  Do  not  suppose  I  cannot  feel 
with  you.     IStill,  I  wish  you  had  been  less  precipitate." 

"  You  were  little  older  than  I  am  when  you  married  ?" 

"  But  my  marriage  was  rather  different  from  this  pro- 
jected one  of  yours.  I  knew  your  mother  well,  and  she 
knew  me.  Both  of  us  had  been  tried — by  trouble  wliich  we 
shared  together,  by  absence,  by  many  and  various  cares. 
We  chose  one  another,  not  hastily  or  blindly,  but  with  free 
will  and  open  eyes.  ISTo,  CtU3%"  he  added,  speaking  earn- 
estly aiul  softly,  "  mine  was  no  sudden  fancy,  no  frantic 
passion.  I  honored  your  mother  alxjve  all  women.  1  loved 
her  as  my  own  soul." 

"  So  do  I  love  Louise.     I  would  die  for  hei*  any  day." 

At  the  sun's  impetuosity  the  father  smiled  ;  not  incredu- 
lously, only  sadly. 

All  this  while  the  mother  had  sat  motionless,  never  utter- 
ing a  sound.  Suddenly,  hearing  a  footstep  and  a  light 
knock  at  the  door,  she  darted  fomvard  and  locked  it,  cry- 
ing, in  a  voice  that  one  could  have  hardly  recognized  as 
hers — 

"  No  admittance  !     Go  away." 

A  note  was  pushed  in  under  the  door.  Mrs.  Halifax 
picked  it  up  : — opened  it,  read  it  mechanically,  and  sat 
down  again  ;  taking  no  notice  even  when  Guy,  catching 
sight  of  the  hand-writing,  eagerly  seized  the  paper. 

It  was  merely  a  line,  stating  Miss  Silver's  wish  to  leave 


432  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Beechwood  immediately  ;  signed  with  her  full  name — her 
right  name — "'  Louise  Eugenie  d'Argent." 

A  postscript  added  :  "Your  silence  I  shall  take  as  per- 
mission to  depart  ;  and  shall  be  gone  early  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  !  Gone  to-morrow  I  And  she  does  not 
even  know  that — that  I  love  her.  Mother,  you  have  ruined 
my  happiness.     I  will  never  forgive  yon — n(  ver  I " 

Never  forgive  his  mother  !  His  mother,  who  had  borne 
him,  nursed  him,  reared  him  ;  who  loved  him  with  that 
love — like  none  other  in  the  world — the  love  of  a  woman 
for  her  first-born  son,  all  these  twenty-one  years  ! 

It  was  hard.  I  think  the  most  passionate  lover,  in  reason- 
able moments,  would  allow  that  it  was  hard.  No  marvel 
that  even  her  husband's  clasp  could  not  remove  the  look  of 
heart-broken,  speechless  suffering  which  settled  stonily  down 
in  Ursula's  face,  as  she  watched  her  boy— storming  about, 
furious  with  uncontrollable  passion  and  pain. 

At  last,  mother-like,  she  forgot  the  passion  in  pity  of 
the  pain. 

"He  is  not  strong  yet ;  he  will  do  himself  harm.  Let 
me  go  to  him  !  John,  let  me  ! "  Her  husband  released 
her. 

Faintly,  with  a  weak,  uncertain  walk,  she  went  up  to 
Guy  and  touched  his  arm. 

"  You  must  keep  quiet,  or  you  will  be  ill.  I  cannot  have 
my  son  ill — not  for  any  girl.  Come,  sit  down — here,  beside 
your  mother." 

She  was  obeyed.  Looking  into  her  eyes,  and  seeing  no 
anger  there,  nothing  but  grief  and  love,  the  young  man's 
right  spirit  came  into  him  again. 

"  0,  mother,  mother,  forgive  me  !  I  am  so  miserable — so 
miserable." 

He  laid  his  head  on  her  shoulder.  She  kissed  and  clasped 
him  close — her  boy  who  never  could  be  wholly  hers  again, 
who  had  learned  to  love  some  one  else  dearer  than  his 
mother. 

After  a  while  she  said,  "  Father,  shake  hands  with  Guy. 
Tell  him,  that  we  forgive  his  being  angry  with  us  ;  that 
perhaps,  some  day — " 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  433 

She  stopped,  uncertain  as  to  the  father's  mind,  or  seek 
iug  strength  tor  her  own, 

"  Some  day/'  John  continued,  "  Uuy  will  find  out  thai 
we  can  have  nothing — iu  the  world — except  our  children's 
good — so  dear  to  us  as  their  happiness." 

Guy  looked  up,  beaming  with  hope  and  joy.     '•■  0  father 
0  mother  !  will  you,  indeed^j-" 

"  We  will  indeed  say  nothing,"  the  father  answered, 
smiling;  "nothing,  until  to-morrow.  Then  we  will  all 
three  talk  the  matter  quietly  over,  and  see  what  can  be 
done." 

Of  course,   I  knew  to  a  certainty  the  conclusion  the} 
would  come  to. 
2S 


CHAPTEE.  XXXIII. 

Late  that  night,  as  I  sat  up  pondering  over  all  that  had 
happened,  Mrs.   Halifax  came  into  my  room. 

She  looked  round  ;  asked  me,  according  to  her  wont,  if 
there  was  anything  I  wanted  before  she  retired  for  the 
night  ? — (Ursula  was  as  good  to  me  as  any  sister) — then 
stood  by  my  easy-chair.  I  would  not  meet  her  eyes,  but  I 
saw  her  hands  fluttering  in  their  restless  way. 

I  pointed  to  her  accustomed  chair. 

"  No,  I  can't  sit  down.  I  must  say  good  night."  Then, 
coming  at  once  to  the  j^oint — "  Phineas,  you  are  always 
up  first  in  the  morning.  Will  you — John  thinks  it  had 
better  be  from  you — will  you  give  a  message  from  us  to — 
Maud's  governess  ?  " 

''Yes.     What  shall  I  say  ? " 

"  Merely,  that  we  request  she  will  not  leave  Beechwood 
until  we  have  seen  her." 

If  Miss  Silver. had  overheard  the  manner  and  tone  of  that 
"  request,"  I  doubt  if  it  would  not  have  hastened  rather  than 
delayed  her  departure.  But,  God  help  the  poor  mother  ! 
her  wounds  were  still  fresh. 

"  Would  it  not  be  better,"  I  suggested,  ''if  you  were  to 
write  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  can't  ;  no,  I  can't," — spoken  with  the  sharpness  of  ex- 
ceeding pain.  Soon  after,  as  in  a  faint  apology,  she  added, 
"  I  am  so  tired  ;  we  are  very  late  to-night." 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  almost  moruing.  I  thought  you  were  both 
in  bed." 

"  No  ;  we  have  been  sitting  talking  in  Guy's  room.  His 
father  thought  it  would  be  better." 

"And  is  all  settled  ?" 

434- 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  435 

"  Yes/' 

Having  told  me  tins,  and  having  as  it  were  by  sucli  a 
conclusion  confessed  it  was  right,  the  question  should  be 
thus  "settled/'  Guy's  mother  seemed  more  herself. 

"  Yes/'  she  repeated,  "  John  thinks  it  ouglit  to  be.  At 
least,  that  she  should  know  Guy's — the  feeling  with  which 
Guy  regards  her.  If,  after  the  probation  of  a  year,  it  still 
remains,  and  he  is  content  to  begin  life  on  a  small  income, 
we  have  given  our  consent  to  our  son's  marriage." 

It  struck  me  how  the  mother's  mind  entirely  dwelt  on 
the  one  party  in  this  matter — "Guy's  feelings  " — "  Our  son's 
marriage  " — and  so  on.  The  otlier  side  of  the  question,  or 
the  possibility  of  any  hindrance  there,  never  seemed  to  en- 
ter her  imagination.  Perhaps  it  would  not,  even  into  mine, 
for  I  shared  the  family  faith  in  its  best  beloved  Guy  ;  but 
for  ^Irs.  Halifax's  so  entirely  ignoring  the  idea  that  any 
consent  except  her  son's  and  his  parents'  was  necessary  to 
this  marriage. 

"It  will  not  part  him  from  us  so  very  much,  you  see, 
Phineas,"  she  said,  evidently  trying  to  view  the  briglit  side 
— "  and  she  has  no  relatives  living — not  one.  For  income 
— Guy  will  have  the  entire  profit  of  the  Xorton  Bury  mills  ; 
and  they  might  begin,  as  we  did,  in  the  old  Norton  Bury 
house — the  dear  old  house." 

The  tliought  of  her  own  young  days  seemed  to  come, 
soothingly  and  sweet,  taking  the  sting  out  of  her  pain,  show- 
ing her  how  it  was  but  right  and  justice  that  jSTature's  holy 
law  should  be  fulfilled — that  children,  in  their  turn,  should 
love,  and  marry,  and  be  happy,  like  their  parents. 

"■  Yes,"  she  answered,  as  I  gently  hinted  this  ;  "I  know 
you  are  right  ;  all  is  quite  right,  and  as  it  should  be.  though 
it  was  a  shock  at  first.  No  matter  ;  John  esteems  her — 
John  likes  her.  For  me — oh,  I  shall  make  a  capital — what 
is  it  ? — a  capital  mother-in-law — in  time  !  " 

With  that  smile,  which  was  almost  cheerful,  she  bade 
me  good  night — rather  hastily,  perhaps,  as  if  she  wished  to 
leave  me  while  her  cheerfulness  lasted.  Then  I  heard  her 
step  along  the  passage,  pausing  once— most  likely  at  GuVs 
room  door  ;  her  own  closed,  and  the  house  was  in  silence. 


436  JOHif    HALIFAX. 

I  rose  early  iu  the  morning  ; — not  one  wliit  too  early,  foi 
I  met  Miss  Silver  in  the  hall,  bonneted  and  shawled,  car- 
rying down  with  her  own  hands  a  portion  of  her  chattels. 
She  evidently  contemplated  an  immediate  departure.  It 
was  with  the  greatest  difilculty  that,  without  betraying  my 
reasons,  which,  of  course,  was  impossible,  I  could  persuade 
her  to  change  her  determination. 

Poor  girl  !  last  night's  events  had  apparently  shaken  her 
from  that  indifference  which  she  seemed  to  think  the  best 
armor  of  a  helpless,  proud  governess  against  the  world. 
She  would  scarcely  listen  to  a  word.  She  was  in  extreme 
agitation  ;  half-a-dozen  times  she  insisted  on  leaving,  and 
then  sat  down  again. 

I  had  not  given  her  credit  for  so  much  wholesome  irreso- 
lution— so  much  genuine  feeling.  Her  manner  almost  con- 
vinced me  of  a  fact  which  every  one  else  seemed  to  hold 
as  certain,  but  which  I  myself  should  have  liked  to  see 
proved  ;  namely,  that  Guy,  in  asking  her  love,  would  have — 
what  in  every  right  and  happy  marriage  a  man  ought  to 
have — the  knowledge  that  the  love  was  his  before  lie  asked 
for  it. 

Seeing  this,  my  heart  warmed  to  the  girl.  I  respected 
her  brave  departure — I  rejoiced  that  it  was  needless.  Will- 
ingly I  would  have  quieted  her  distress  with  some  hopeful, 
ambiguous  word,  but  that  would  have  been  trenching,  as  no 
one  ever  ought  to  trench,  on  the  lover's  sole  right.  So  I 
held  my  tongue,  watcliing  with  an  amused  pleasure  the 
color  hovering  to  and  fro  over  that  usually  impassive  face. 
At  last,  at  the  opening  of  the  study  door — we  stood  in  the 
hall  still — those  blushes  rose  up  to  her  forehead  in  one  in- 
voluntary tide. 

But  it  was  only  Edwin,  who  had  lately  taken  to  a  habit 
of  getting  up  very  early, — to  study  mathematics.  He 
looked  surprised  at  seeing  me  with  Miss  Silver. 

"  What  is  that  box  ?     She  is  not  going  ?  " 

*'  No  ;  I  have  been  entreating  her  not.  Add  your  per- 
suasions, Edwin," 

For  Edwin,  with  all  his  quietness,  was  a  lad  of  much 
wisdom,  great  influence,  and  no  little  penetration.     I  felt 


JOHK   HALIFAX.  437 

inclined  to  believe  that  though  as  yet  he  had  not  been  let 
into  the  secret  of  last  night,  he  guessed  it  pretty  well  al- 
ready. 

He  might  have  done,  by  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  he 
went  up  to  the  governess  and  took  her  hand. 

*'  Pray- stay  ;  I  beg  of  you." 

She  made  no  more  ado,  but  stayed. 

I  left  her  with  Edwin,  and  took  my  usual  morning  walk, 
wp  and  down  the  garden,  till  breakfast-time. 

A  strange  and  painful  breakfast  it  was,  even  though  the 
most  important  element  of  its  painfulness,  Gu}^  was  hap- 
pily absent.  The  rest  of  us  kept  up  a  fragmentary,  awk- 
ward conversation,  every  one  round,  the  room  looking,  as 
indeed  one  might  have  expected  they  would  look,  with  one 
exception. 

Miss  Silver,  who  from  Iut  behavior  last  night,  aiid  her 
demeanor  to  me  this  morning,  I  had  supposed  would  now 
have  gathered  up  all  her  haughtiness  to  resist  Guy's  parents 
— as,  ignorant  both  of  his  feelings  and  their  intentions 
towards  her,  a  young  lady  of  her  proud  spirit  might  well 
resist — was,  to  my  astonishment,  as  mild  and  meek  as  this 
soft  spring  morning.  Xay,  like  it,  seemed  often  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  melting  mood.  More  than  once,  her  drooping 
eye-lashes  were  gemmed  with  tears.  And  when,  the  break- 
fast-table being  quickly  deserted — Edwin,  indeed,  had  left 
it  almost  immediately — she,  sitting  absently  in  her  place, 
was  gently  touched  by  Mrs.  Halifax,  she  started  up,  with 
the  same  vivid  rush  of  color  that  I  had  before  noticed.  It 
completely  altered  the  expression  of  her  face  ;  made  her 
look  ten  years  younger — ten  years  happier,  and,  being 
happier,  ten  times  more  amiable. 

This  expression — I  was  not  the  only  one  to  notice  it — 
was_,  by  some  intuitioii,  reflected  on  the  mother's.  It 
made  softer  than  any  speech  of  hers  to  Miss  Silver,  the  few 
words — 

"  My  dear,  will  you  come  with  me  into  the  study  ?  " 

"To  lessons?  Yes.  I  beg  your  pardon  !  Maud — where 
is  Maud?'' 

'''  Never  mind  lessons  just  yet.     We  will  have  a  little 


438  JOH]>f    HALIFAX. 

chat  with  my   son.     Uncle  Phineas,  you'll  come  ?     Will 
you  come,  too,  my  clear  ?  " 

"  If  you  wish  it."  And  Avith  an  air  of  unwonted  obedi- 
ence, she  followed  Mrs.  Halifax. 

Poor  Guy  ! — confused  youiig  lover  ! — meeting  for  the  first 
time  after  his  confession  the  acknowledged  object  of  his 
preference — I  really  felt  sorry  for  him  !  And,  except  that 
women  have  generally  twice  as  much  self-control  in  such 
cases  as  men — and  Miss  Silver  proved  it — I  might  even  have 
been  sorry  for  her.  But  then  her  uncertainties  would  soon 
be  over.  She  iiad  not  to  make — all  her  family  being  aware 
she  was  then  and  there  making  it — that  terrible  "  offer  of 
marriage,"  which,  I  am  given  to  understand,  is,  even 
under  the  most  favorable  circumstances,  as  formidable  as 
going  uj)  to  the  cannon's  mouth. 

I  speak  of  it  jestingly,  as  we  all  jested  uneasily  that 
morning,  save  Mrs.  Halifax,  who  scarcely  spoke  a  word. 
At  length,  when  Miss  Silver,  growing  painfully  restless, 
again  referred  to  "  lessons,"  she  said — 

"  Not  yet.  I  want  Maud  for  half  an  hour.  Will  you 
be  so  kind  as  to  take  my  place,  and  sit  with  my  son  the 
while  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  " 

I  was  vexed  with  her — really  vexed — for  that  ready 
assent ;  but  then,  who  knows  the  ins  and  outs  of  women's 
ways  ?  At  any  rate,  for  Guy's  sake  this  must  be  got  over 
— the  quicker  the  better.     His  mother  rose. 

'*'  My  son,  my  dear  boy  ! "  She  leant  over  him,  whisper- 
ing— I  think  she  kissed  him — then  slowly,  quietly,  she 
Avalked  out  of  the  study.  I  followed.  Outside  the  door 
we  parted,  and  I  heard  her  go  up-stairs  to  her  own 
room. 

It  might  have  been  half  an  hour  afterwards,  when  Maud 
and  I,  coming  in  from  the  garden,  met  her  standing  in  the 
hall.  No  one  was  with  her,  and  bhc  was  doing  nothing  ; 
two  very  remarkable  facts  in  the  daily  life  of  the  motliej 
of  the  family. 

Maud  ran  up  to  her  with  some  primroses. 

*'  Very  pretty,  very  pretty,  my  child.'' 


JOHN"    HALIFAX.  430 

"  But  you  don't  look  at  them— you  don't  care  for  them 
—I'll  go  and  show  them  to  Miss  Silver." 

"  No,"  was  the  hasty  answer.  "  Come  back,  Maud- 
Miss  Silver  is  occupied," 

Makina:  some  excuse,  I  sent  the  child  awav,  for  I  saw 
that  even  Maud's  presence  was  intolerable  to  her  mother. 
That  poor  mother,  whose  suspense  was  growing  into  posi- 
tive agony  ! 

She  waited — standing  at  the  dining-room  window — 
listening — going  in  and  out  of  the  hall, — for  another  ten 
minutes. 

"  It  is  very  strange — very  strange  indeed.  He  promised 
to  come  to  tell  me  ;  surely  at  least  he  ought  to  come  and 
tell  me  first — me,  his  mother — " 

She  stopped  at  tiie  word,  oppressed  by  exceeding  pain. 

''  Hark  !  was  that  the  study  door  ?  " 

"  I  think  so  ;  one  minute  more  and  you  will  be  quite 
certain." 

Ay  !  one  minute  more,  and  we  tvere  quite  certain.  The 
young  lover  entered — his  bitter  tidings  written  on  his 
face. 

"  She  has  refused  me,  mother.  I  never  shall  be  happy 
more." 

Poor  Guy  !— I  slipped  out  of  his  sight  and  left  the  lad 
alone  with  his  mother. 

Another  hour  passed  of  this  strange,  strange  day.  The 
house  seemed  painfully  quiet.  Maud,  disconsolate  and  cross, 
had  taken  herself  away  to  the  beech- wood  with  Walter  ;  the 
father  and  Edwin  were  busy  at  the  mills,  and  had  sent 
word  that  neither  would  return  to  dinner.  I  wandered 
from  room  to  room,  always  excepting  that  shut-up  room 
where,  as  I  took  care,  no  one  should  disturb  the  mother 
and  son. 

At  last  I  heard  them  both  going  up-stairs — Guy  was  still 
too  lame  to  walk  without  assistance.  I  heard  the  poor  lad's 
fretful  tones,  and  the  soothing,  cheerful  voice  that  answered 
them,  "  Veril}^"  thought  I,  "if,  since  he  must  fall  in 
love,  Guy  had  only  fixed  his  ideal  standard  of  womanhood 
a  little  nearer  home — if  he  had  only  chosen  for  his  wife  a 


4:40  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

woman  a  little  more  like  his  mother  ! "  But  I  suppose  that 
would  have  been  expecting  impossibilities. 

AVell,  he  had  been  refused  ! — our  Guy,  whom  we  all 
would  have  imagined  irresistible — our  Guy,  "  whom  to  look 
on  was  to  love."  Some  harsh  folk  might  say  this  might  be 
a  good  lesson  for  the  lad — nay,  for  most  lads  ;  but  I  deny 
it. — I  doubt  if  any  young  man,  meeting  at  the  outset  of 
life  a  rejection  like  this,  which  either  ignorance  or  heed- 
lessness on  the  woman's  part  had  made  totally  unexpected, 
ever  is  the  better  for  it :  perhaps,  for  many  years,  cruelly 
the  worse.  For,  most  women  being  quicksighted  about 
love,  and  most  men — especially  young  men — blind  enough 
in  its  betrayal, — any  woman  who  wilfully  allows  an  offer 
only  to  refuse  it,  lowers  not  only  herself  but  her  whole  sex, 
for  a  long,  long  time  after  in  the  lover's  eyes.  At  least  I 
think  so  ; — as  I  was  thinking,  in  the  way  old  bachelors  are 
prone  to  moralize  over  such  things,  when,  coming  out  of 
Guy's  room,  I  met  Mrs.  Halifax. 

She  crossed  the  passage,  hastily  but  noiselessly,  to  a  small 
ante-room  which  Miss  Silver  had  for  her  own  private  study 
— out  of  which  half-a-dozen  stairs  led  to  the  chamber  where 
she  and  her  pupil  sat.  The  ante-room  was  open,  the  bed- 
chamber door  closed. 

''She  is  in  there  ?" 

"  I  believe  she  is." 

Guy's  mother  stood  irresolute.  Her  knit  brow  and  ner- 
vous manner  betrayed  some  determination  she  had  come 
to,  which  had  cost  her  hard  :  suddenly  she  turned  to  me. 

"  Keep  the  children  out  of  the  way,  will  you,  Phineas  ? 
Don't  let  them  know — don't  let  anybody  know — about 
Guy." 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  There  is  some  mistake — there  twist  be  some  mistake. 
Perhaps  she  is  not  sure  of  our  consent — his  father's  and 
mine  ;  very  right  of  her — very  right  !  I  honor  her  for  her 
indecision.  But  she  must  be  assured  to  the  contrary — my 
boy's  peace  must  not  be  sacrificed.  You  understand, 
Phineas  ?  " 

Ay,  perhaps  better  than  she  did  herself,  poor  mother  ! 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  441 

Yet,  when  in  answer  to  the  liasty  knock,  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Miss  Silver  opening  the  door — Miss  Silver  with 
hair  all  falling  down  dishevelled,  and  features  swollen  with 
crying, — I  went  away  completely  at  fault,  as  the  standers- 
by  seem  doomed  to  be  in  all  love  affairs.  I  began  to 
hope  that  this  would  settle  itself  somehow — in  all  parties 
understanding  one  another  after  the  good  old  roman- 
tic fashion,  and  "  living  very  happy  to  the  end  of  their 
lives." 

I  saw  nothing  more  of  any  one,  until  tea-time  :  when 
Mrs.  Halifax  and  the  governess  came  in  together.  Some- 
thing in  their  manner  struck  me — one  being  subdued  and 
gentle,  the  other  tender  and  kind.  Both,  however,  were 
exceedingly  grave — nay,  sad  ;  but  it  appeared  to  be  that 
sadness  which  is  received  as  inevitable,  and  is  quite  distinct 
from  either  anger  or  resentment. 

Neither  Guy  nor  Edwin,  nor  the  father,  were  present. 
When  John's  voice  was  heard  in  the  hall.  Miss  Silver  had 
just  risen  to  retire  with  Maud. 

"  Good  night,"  the  mother  answered  in  the  same  whisper 
— rose,  kissed  her  kindly,  and  let  her  go. 

When  Edwin  and  his  father  appeared,  they  too  looked 
remarkably  grave — as  grave  as  if  they  had  known  by  in- 
tuition all  the  trouble  in  the  house.  Of  course,  no  one 
referred  to  it.  The  mother  merely  noticed  how  late  they 
were,  and  how  tired  they  both  looked.  Supper  passed  in 
silence,  and  then  Edwin  took  up  his  candle  to  go  to  bed. 

His  father  called  him  back.  "Edwin,  you  will  re- 
member ?  " 

''  I  will,  father." 

"  Something  is  amiss  with  Edwin,"  said  his  mother, 
when  the  two  younger  boys  had  closed  the  door  behind 
them.     "  What  did  you  wish  him  to  remember  ?  " 

Her  husband's  sole  reply  was  to  draw  her  to  him  with 
that  peculiarly  tender  gaze,  which  she  knew  well  to  be  the 
forewarning  of  trouble  ;  trouble  he  could  not  save  her  from 
— could  only  help  her  to  bear.  Ursula  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder  with  one  deep  sob  of  long-smothered  pain. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  all.     I  thought  you  would  soon 


442  JOHN    HALIFAX, 

guess.     Oh,  John,  our  happy  days  are  over  !     Our  children 
are  children  no  more." 

"  But  ours  still,  love— always  will  be  ours." 

"  What  of  that,  when  we  can  no  longer  make  them  happy  ? 
When  they  look  for  happiness  to  otliers  and  not  to  us  ? 
My  own  poor  boy  !  To  think  that  his  mother  can  neither 
give  him  comfort,  nor  save  him  pain,  any  more." 

She  wept  bitterly. 

When  she  was  somewhat  soothed,  John,  making  her  sit 
down  by  him.  but  turning  a  little  from  her,  bade  her  tell 
him  all  that  had  happened  to-day.  A  few  words  explained 
the  history  of  Guy's  rejection,  and  its  cause. 

"  She  loves  some  one  else.  When  I — as  his  mother — 
went  and  asked  her  the  question,  she  confessed  this." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  What  could  I  say  ?  I  could  not  blame  her.  I  was 
even  sorry  for  her.  She  cried  so  bitterly,  and  begged  me 
to  forgive  her.  I  said  I  did,  freely,  and  hoped  she  would 
be  happy." 

"  That  was  right.  I  am  glad  you  said  so.  Did  she  tell 
you  who  he — this  lover,  was  ?  " 

"No.  She  said  she  could  not,  until  he  gave  her  per- 
mission. That  whether  they  would  ever  be  married,  she 
did  not  know.  She  knew  nothing,  save  that  he  was  good, 
and  kind,  and  the  only  creature  in  the  world  who  had  ever 
cared  for  her." 

"  Poor  girl  !  " 

"^  John," — startled  by  his  manner — "you  have  something 
to  tell  me  ?  You  know  who  this  is — this  man  who  has 
stood  between  my  son  and  his  happiness  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do  know." 

I  cannot  say  how  far  the  Riother  saw — what,  as  if  by  a 
flash  of  lightning,  /  did  ;  bat  she  looked  up  in  her  hus- 
band's face,  with  a  sudden  speechless  dread. 

"  Love,  it  is  a  great  misfortune,  but  it  is  no  one's  blame 
— neither  ours,  nor  theirs — they  never  thought  of  Guy's 
loving  her.     He  says  so — Edwin  himself." 

"'  Is  it  Edwin  ?" — in  a  cry  as  if  her  heart  was  breaking. 
"  His  own  brother — his  very  own  brother!  0  my  poor  Guy!  " 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  443 

Well  miglit  the  mother  mouru  !  Well  might  the  father 
look  as  if  years  of  care  had  been  added  to  his  life  that  day  ! 
For  a  disaster  like  this  happening  in  any  household — es- 
pecially a  household  where  love  is  recognized  as  a  tangible 
truth,  neither  to  be  laughed  at,  passed  carelessly  over,  nor 
lectured  down — makes  the  family  cease  to  be  a  family,  in 
many  things,  from  henceforward.  The  two  strongest  feel- 
ings of  life  clash  ;  the  bond  of  brotherly  unity,  in  its  per- 
fectness,  is  broken  for  ever. 

For  some  minutes  we  sat,  bewildered  as  it  were,  think- 
ing of  the  tale  us  if  it  had  been  told  of  some  other  family 
than  ours.  ^Mechanically  the  mother  raised  her  eyes  ;  the 
first  object  they  chanced  to  meet  was  a  rude  water-color 
drawing,  kept,  coarse  daub  as  it  was,  because  it  was  the 
only  reminder  we  had  of  what  never  could  be  recalled — one 
red-cheeked  child  with  a  hoop,  staring  at  another  red- 
cheeked  child  with  a  nosegay — supposed  to  represent  little 
Edwin  and  little  Guy. 

"  Guy  taught  Edwin  to  walk.  Edwin  made  Guy  learn 
his  letters.  How  fond  they  were  of  one  another — those 
two  boys.  Now — brotlier  will  set  against  brother  !  They 
will  never  feel  like  brothers — never  again." 

'^Love— " 

"Don't,  John  !  don't  speak  to  me  just  yet.  It  is  so 
terrible  to  think  of.  Buth  my  boys — both  my  two  noble 
boys  !  to  be  miserable  for  that  girl's  sake.  Oh  !  that  she 
had  never  darkened  our  doors.  Oh  !  that  she  had  neve: 
been  born." 

"Nay,  you  must  not  speak  thus.  Ptemember — Edwin 
loves  her — she  will  be  Edwin's  wife." 

"■Never!"  cried  the  mother  desperately;  *"'Iwill  not 
allow  it,  Guy  is  the  eldest.  His  brother  has  acted  meanly. 
So  has  she.     No,  John,  I  will  not  allow  it." 

"  You  will  not  allow  what  has  already  happened — what 
Providence  has  permitted  to  happen  ?  Ursula,  you  forget 
—they  love  one  another." 

This  one  fact — this  solemn  upholding  of  the  pre-emi- 
nent right  and  law  of  love, — which  law  John  believed  in, 
they  both  believed  in,  so  sacredly  and  firmly — appeared  to 


444  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

force  itself  upon  Mrs.  Halifax's  miud.  Her  passion  sub- 
dued. 

"  I  cannot  judge  clearly.  You  can — always.  Husband, 
help  me  ! " 

"  Poor  wife  ! — poor  mother  !  "  he  uttered,  caressing  her» 
and  in  that  caress  himself  all  but  giving  way — "■  Alas  !  that 
I  should  have  brought  thee  into  such  a  sea  of  trouble." 

Perhaps  he  referred  to  the  circumstance  of  his  bringing 
Miss  Silver  into  our  house  ;  perhaps  to  his  own  blindness, 
or  want  of  parental  caution,  in  throwing  the  young  people 
continually  together.  However,  John  was  not  one  to  la- 
ment over  things  inevitable  ;  or  by  overweening  blame  of 
his  own  want  of  foresight,  to  imply  a  doubt  of  the  foresee- 
ing of  Providence. 

"  Love,"  he  said,  "  I  fear  we  have  been  too  anxious  to 
play  Deusexmachind  with  our  children,  forgetting  in  whose 
Hands  are  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage — life's  crosses 
and  life's  crowns.  Trouble  has  come  when  we  looked  not 
for  it.  We  can  but  try  to  see  the  right  course,  and  seeing 
it,  to  act  upon  it." 

Ursula  assented — with  a  bursting  heart  it  seemed — but 
still  she  assented,  believing  even  as  in  her  young  days,  that 
her  husband's  will  was  wisest,  best. 

He  told  her,  in  few  words,  all  that  Edwin  had  that  day 
confessed  to  his  father  ;  how  these  two,  being  much  to- 
gether, had  become  attached  to  one  another,  as  young  folks 
will — couples  whom  no  one  would  ever  think  suited  each 
for  each — except  Nature,  and  the  instincts  of  their  own 
hearts.  Absorbed  in  this  love — which  Edwin  solemnly  de- 
clared, was  never  openly  declared  till  this  morning — they 
neither  of  them  thought  of  Gruy.  And  thus  things  had  be- 
fallen— things  which  no  earthly  jDower  could  remove  or 
obliterate — things  in  which,  Avhatever  way  we  looked,  all 
seemed  darkness.  AVe  could  but  walk  blindly  on,  a  step 
at  a  time,  trusting  to  that  Faith,  of  which  all  our  lives 
jjast  had  borne  confirmation — the  firm  faith  that  evil  itself 
is  to  the  simple  and  God-fearing  but  the  disguised  messen- 
ger of  good. 

Something  like  this  John  said,  talking  as  his  wife  loved 


i  i 


JOHJ^     HALIFAX.  -^45 

to  hear  him  talk — every  quiet,  low  word  dropping  like 
balm  upon  her  grieved  heart  ;  not  trying  to  deceive  her 
into  the  notion  that  pain  is  not  jiain,  but  showing  her  how 
best  to  bear  it.  At  length  she  looked  up,  as  if  with  God's 
help — and  her  husband's  comforting — she  could  bear  it. 

"Only  one  thing — Guy  does  not  know.  He  need  not 
know  just  yet — not  till  he  is  stronger.  Surely  Edwin  will 
not  tell  him." 

''  No  ;  he  promised  me  he  would  not.  Do  not  start  so. 
Indeed,  there  is  no  fear." 

But  that  very  assurance  seemed  to  rouse  it.  She  began 
straining  her  ears  to  catch  the  least  noise  in  the  rooms 
over  head — the  boy's  room.  Guy  and  Walter  shared  one  ; 
Edwin  had  his  to  himself. 

"  They  surely  will  not  meet.     Yet  Guy  sometimes  likes 
sitting  over  Edwin's  fire.     Hark  ! — was  not  that  the  creak- 
ing of  Guy's  room-door  ?  " 
Love — "  detaining  her. 

I  know,   John.     I  am  not  thinking  of  going.     Guy. 
might  suspect  something.     No,  indeed  I  am  not  afraid. 
They  were  always  fond  of  one  another — my  boys." 

She  sat  down,  violently  forcing  herself  not  to  listen,  not 
to  fear.     But  the  truth  was  too  strong  for  her. 

"  Hark  !  I  am  sure  they  are  talking.  John,  you  said 
Edwin  promised  ?  " 

"  Faithfully  promised." 

"But  if,  by  some  accident,  Guy  found  out  the  truth? 
Hark  !  they  are  talking  very  loud.  That  is  a  chair  fallen. 
Oh,  John — don't  keep  me  !  My  boys — my  boys."  And 
she  ran  up-stairs  in  an  agony. 

What  a  sight  for  a  mother's  eyes.  Two  brothers — of 
whom  it  had  been  our  boast  that  from  babyhood  they  had 
never  been  known  to  lift  a  hand  against  each  other — now 
struggling  together  like  Cain  and  Abel.  And  from  the 
fury  in  their  faces,  the  quarrel  might  have  had  a  similar 
ending. 

"  Guy  ! — Edwin  ! "  But  the  mother  might  as  well  have 
shrieked  to  the  winds. 

The  father  came  and  parted  them.     "'  Boys,  are  you  gone 


44:5  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

mad  r  fighting  like  brutes  in  this  way.  Shame  Guy  ! 
Edwin,  I  trusted  you." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  father.  He  had  no  right  to  steal 
into  my  room  ;  no  right  to  snatch  her  letter  from  me." 

"  It  was  her  letter,  then  ?  "  cried  Guy,  furiously.  "  She 
writes  to  you  ?     You  were  writing  back  to  her  ?  " 

Edwin  made  no  answer  ;  but  held  out  his  hand  for  the 
letter,  with  that  look  of  white  passion  in  liim  so  rarely  seen 
—perhaps  not  thrice  since  his  infancy,     Guy  took  no  heed. 

"  Give  it  me  back,  Guy  ; — I  warn  you." 

*'  Not  till  I  have  read  it.     I  Iiave  a  right." 

*' You  have  none.     She  is  mine." 

"  Yours  ?  "     Guy  laughed  in  his  face. 

''Yes,  mine.  Ask  my  father — ask  my  mother.  They 
know. " 

"  Mother  ! " — the  letter  fell  from  the  poor  lad's  hand. 
^'  Mother,  yon,  would  not  deceive  me.  He  only  says  it  to 
vex  me.  I  was  in  a  passion,  I  know.  Mother,  it  isn't 
true?" 

His  piteous  tone — the  almost  childish  way  in  which  he 
caught  at  her  sleeve,  as  she  turned  from  him — ah,  poor 
Guy  ! 

"Edwin,  is  it  my  brother  Edwin?  "Who  would  have 
thought  it  ?"  Half-bewildered,  he  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  of  us  all ;  but  no  one  spoke,  no  one  contradicted  him. 

Edwin,  his  passion  quite  gone,  stooped  in  a  sorrowful 
and  humble  way  to  pick  up  his  betrothed's  letter.  Then 
Guy  flew  at  him,  and  caught  him  by  the  collar. 

"You  coward  I — how  dared  you  ? No,  I  won't  hurt 

him  ;  she  is  fond  of  him.  Go  away,  every  one  of  yon. 
Oh,  mother,  mother,  mother  ! " 

He  fell  on  her  neck,  sobbing.  She  gathered  him  in  her 
arms,  as  she  had  used  to  do  in  his  childhood ;  and  so  we 
left  them. 

"  As  one  whom  Ms  mother  comforteth." 

Ay,  prophet  of  Israel,  thou  wert  wise. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

John  and  I  sat  over  tlie  study  fire  till  long  after  mid- 
night. 

Many  an  anxious  watch  I  had  kept  with  him,  but  none 
sadder  than  this.  Because  now,  for  the  first  time,  our 
house  was  divided  against  itself.  A  sorrow  had  entered 
it,  not  from  witliout  but  from  within — a  sorrow  which  we 
could  not  meet  and  boar,  as  a  family.  Alas  I  darker  and 
darker  had  the  bitter  truth  forced  itself  upon  us,  that 
neither  joy  nor  affliction  would  ever  find  us  as  a  family 
again. 

I  think  all  parents  must  feel  cruelly  a  pang  like  this — 
the  first  trouble  in  which  they  cannot  help  their  children 
— the  first  time  when  those  children  must  learn  to  stand 
alone,  each  for  himself,  compelled  to  carry  his  own  burthen 
and  work  out,  well  or  ill,  his  individual  life.  Wlieu  tlio 
utmost  tne  wisest  or  tenderest  father  can  do,  is  to  keep 
near  with  ou<:stretched  hand  that  the  child  may  cling  to, 
assured  of  finding  sympathy,  counsel,  and  love. 

If  this  father  had  stood  aloof  all  his  life,  on  some  pin 
nacle  of  paternal  "•  pride,"  paternal  "  dignity  " — if  he  h;;(l 
not   made  himself  his  boys^  comjianion,    counsellor,  and 
friend,  how  great  would  have  been  his  terrors  now  ! 

For,  as  we  both  knew  well — too  well  to  trust  ourselves  to 
say  it— if  there  was  one  thing  in  the  Avorld  that  ruins  a 
lad,  drives  him  to  desperation,  shuts  the  door  upon  him. 
and  opens  many  another  door,  of  which  the  entrance  is  the 
very  gate  of  hell — it  is  such  a  disappointment  as  this  Avhich 
had  happened  to  our  Guy. 

His  father  saw  it  all.  Saw  it  clearer,  crueller,  than  even 
his  mother  could  see.  Yet  when,  very  late,  almost  at 
dawn,  she  came  in,  with  the  tidings  that  Guy  was  himself 
again  now — sleeping  as  quietlv  as  a  child — her  husband 

447 


448  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

was  able  to  join  in  her  deep  thankfulness,  and  give  her 
hope  for  the  days  to  come." 

"  But  what  is  to  be  done  with  Guy  ?  " 

"  God  knows/'  Joliu  answered.  But  his  tone  expressed 
a  meaning  different  from  that  generally  conveyed  in  the 
words  ;  a  meaning  which  the  mother  caught  at  once,  and 
rested  on. 

"  Ay — you  are  right.  He  knows  ! " — And  so  they  went 
away  together,  almost  content. 

Next  morning  I  woke  late  ;  the  sunshine  falling  across 
my  bed,  and  the  sparrows  chattering  loud  in  the  ivy.  I 
had  been  dreaming  with  a  curious  pertinacity,  of  tlie  old 
days  at  Rose  Cottage,  the  days  when  John  first  fell  in  love 
with  Ursula. 

"Uncle  Phineas."     I  heard  myself  called. 

It  was  John's  son,  who  sat  opjiosite,  with  wan,  wild  eyes, 
and  a  settled  anguish  on  his  mouth — that  merry,  handsome 
mouth — the  only  really  handsome  mouth  in  the  family. 

"  You  are  up  early,  my  boy." 

"■  What  was  the  good  of  lying  in  bed  ?  I  am  not  ill. 
Besides,  I  wish  to  go  about  as  usual.  I  don't  wish  anybody 
to  think  that — that  I  care." 

He  stopped — evidently  fighting  hard  against  himself. 
A  new  lesson,  alas  !  for  our  Guy. 

"Was  I  too  violent  last  night  ?  I  did  not  mean  it.  I 
mean  to  be  a  man.  Not  the  first  man  Avhom  a  lady  has 
refused — eh  ?"  And  braving  it  out,  he  began  to  whistle  ; 
but  the  lips  fell — the  frank  brow  grew  knotted  with  pain. 
The  lad  broke  into  a  passion  of  misery. 

The  chief  business  was,  that  he  had  been  deceived.  Un- 
wittingly, we  well  believed — but  still  deceived.  Many 
little  things  he  told  me — Guy's  was  a  nature  that  at  once 
spent  and  soothed  itself,  by  talking — of  j\Iiss  Silver's  ex- 
treme gentleness  and  kindness  towards  him  ;  a  kindness 
which  seemed  so  like,  so  cruelly  like  love. 

"  Love  ! — Oh,  she  loved  me.  She  told  me  so.  Of  course  ! 
— I  was  Edwin's  brother." 

Ay,  there  was  the  sting,  which  never  could  be  removed  ; 
which  might  rankle  in  the  boy's  heart  for  life.     He  had 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  44-f) 

not  only  lost  his  love,  but  what  is  more  precious  than  love 
— faith  in  womankind.  He  began  to  make  light  of  his 
losings — to  think  the  prize  was  not  so  great  after  all.  He 
sat  on  my  bod,  singing — Guy  had  a  fine  voice  and  ear — 
singing  out  of  mockery,  songs  which  I  had  an  especial  aver- 
sion to — light  songs  written  by  an  Irishman,  Mr.  Thomas 
Moore,  about  girls  and  wine,  and  being  "  far  from  the  lips 
we  love,"  but  always  ready  enough  ''  to  make  love  to  the 
lijis  we  are  near. "  Then,  laughing  at  me,  he  threw  up  the 
Avindow  and  looked  out. 

I  think  it  was  wrong  of  those  two,  Avrong  and  selfish,  as 
all  lovers  are — young  lovers  in  the  flush  of  their  happiness  ; 
I  think  it  was  cruel  of  Edwin  and  Louise  to  walk  up  and 
down  there,  in  the  elder  brother's  very  eyes. 

For  a  moment  he  struggled  against  his  passion. 

"Uncle  Phineas,  just  look  here.  How  charming  I  Ha, 
ha  !     Did  you  ever  see  such  a  couple  of  fools  ?  " 

Fools,  may  be,  but  happy  ;  happy  to  the  very  core — 
thoroughly  engrossed  in  their  happiness.  The  elder 
brother  was  almost  maddened  by  it. 

"He  must  mind  what  he  does — tell  him  so.  Uncle  Phi- 
neas,— it  would  be  safer.  He  must  mind,  or  I  will  not  an- 
swer for  myself.  I  w^as  fond  of  Edwin — I  was  indeed — but 
now  it  seems  sometimes  as  if  I  hated  him." 

"  Guy  ! " 

"  Oh,  if  it  had  been  a  stranger,  and  not  he  !  If  it  had 
been  any  one  in  the  world  except  my  brother  !  " 

And  in  that  bitter  cry,  the  lad's  heart  melted  again  ;  it 
was  such  a  tender  heart — his  mother's  heart. 

After  a  time  he  recovered  himself,  and  came  down  Avith 
me  to  breakfast,  as  he  had  insisted  upon  doing  ;  met  them 
all,  even  j\Iiss  Silver — and  Edwin,  Avho  had  placed  himself 
by  her  side  Avith  an  air  of  right.  These  lovers,  however 
deeply  grieved  they  looked — and  to  do  them  justice,  it  Avas 
really  so — needed  not  to  be  grieved  over  by  any  of  us. 

Nor,  looking  at  the  father  and  mother,  would  we  have 

dared  to  grieve  over  tlwm.     In  the  silent  watches  of  the 

night,  heart  to  heart,  husband  and  Avife  had  taken  counsel 

together  ;  together  had  carried   their  sorroAv  to  the  only 

29 


450  JOH]!f    HALIFAX. 

Lightener  of  burthens.  It  seemed  that  theirs  was  lightened ; 
that  even  in  this  strange  entanglement  of  fate  they  were 
able  to  wait  patiently — trusting  unto  the  Almighty  mercy 
not  only  themselves  but  the  children  He  had  given  them. 

When,  breakfast  being  over,  John  according  to  his  custom 
read  the  chapter  and  the  prayer — no  one  rose  up  or  went 
out  ;  no  one  refused,  even  in  this  anguish  of  strife,  jealousy, 
and  disunion — to  repeat  after  him  the  "Our  Father"  of 
their  childhood. 

I  believe  every  one  of  us  remembered  for  years,  with  an 
awe  that  was  not  altogether  pain,  this  morning's  chapter 
and  prayer. 

When  it  was  ended,  worldly  troubles  closed  round  us  again. 

Nothing  seemed  natural.  We  hung  about  in  twos  and 
threes,  uncertain  Avhat  to  do.  Guy  walked  up  and  down 
alone.  His  mother  asked  him  if,  seeing  his  foot  was  so 
well,  he  would  like  to  go  down  to  the  mills  as  usual  ;  but 
he  declined.  Miss  Silver  made  some  suggestion  about  "les- 
sons." which  Edwin  jealously  negatived  immediately,  and 
proposed  that  she  and  Maud  should  take  a  drive  somewhere. 

Mrs.  Halifax  eagerly  assented.  "  Lady  Oldtower  has 
been  wanting  them  both  for  some  time.  You  would  like 
to  go,  would  you  not,  for  a  day  or  two  ?  "  said  she,  address- 
ing the  governess. 

Guy  caught  at  this.     "  Going  away,  are  you  ?     When  ?  " 

He  put  the  cjuestion  to  Miss  Silver  direct — his  eyes  blaz- 
ing right  into  her  own.  She  made  some  confused  reply, 
about  "leaving  immediately." 

"  In  the  carriage,  of  course  ?  Shall  I  have  the  honor  of 
driving  you  ?  " 

"  ±so,"  said  Edwin,  decisively. 

A  fierce,  vindictive  look  passed  between  the  broth  -a 
look  terrible  in  itself — more  terrible  in  its  warning  of  days 
to  come.  No  wonder  the  mother  shuddered — no  wonder 
the  young  betrothed.  j)ale  and  alarmed,  slipped  out  of  the 
room.  Edwin  followed  her.  Then  Guy,  snatching  up  his 
sister,  lifted  her  roughly  on  his  knee. 

"  Come  along,  Maud.  You'll  be  my  girl  now.  Nobody 
else  wants  you.     Kiss  me,  child." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  45] 

But  the  little  lady  drew  back. 

"  So,  you  hate  me  too  ?  Edwin  hp,s  been  teaching  you  ? 
Very  well.      Get  away,  you  cheat !  " 

He  pushed  her  violently  aside.     Maud  began  to  cry, 

Hei-  father  looked  up  from  his  book — the  book  he  had 
not  been  reading — thougli  he  had  seemingly  thought  it  best 
to  take  no  notice  of  what  was  passing  around  him. 

"  Come  here,  Maud,  my  child.  Guy,  you  should  not  be 
unkind  to  your  little  sister.  Try  and  command  yourself, 
my  dear  boy  I  " 

The  words,  though  spoken  gently,  almost  in  a  whisper, 
were  more  than  the  lad's  chafed  spirit  could  brook. 

"  Father,  you  insult  me.  1  will  not  bear  it.-  I  will  rjuit 
the  room." 

He  went  out,  shutting  the  door  passionately  after  him. 
His  mother  rose  up  to  follow  Tiiui— then  sat  down  again. 
The  eyes  that  she  lifted  to  her  husband  were  deprecating, 
beseeching,  heavy  with  a  speechless  pain. 

For  John — he  said  nothing.  Not  though,  as  was  plain 
to  see,  this,  the  first  angry  or  disrespectful  word  he  had 
ever  received  from  any  one  of  his  children,  struck  him  like  an 
arrow  ;  for  a  moment  stirred  him  even  to  wrath — holy  wrath 
— the  just  displeasure  of  a  father  who  feels  that  the  least 
portion  of  his  child's  sin  is  the  sin  against  him.  Perhaps 
this  very  feeling,  distinct  from,  and  far  beyond,  all  personal 
indignation,  all  sense  of  offended  dignity,  made  the  anger 
strangely  brief — so  brief,  that  when  the  other  children, 
awed  and  startled,  looked  for  some  ebullition  of  it, — lo  ! 
it  was  all  gone.  In  its  stead  was  something  at  which  the 
children,  more  awed  still,  crept  out  of  the  room. 

Ursula  even,  alarmed,  looked  in  his  face  as  if  for  the 
first  time  she  could  not  comprehend  her  husband. 

"John,  you  should  forgive  poor  Guy  ;  he  did  not  intend 
any  harm." 

"No — no.'"" 

"  And  he  is  so  very  miserable.  Never  before  did  he  fail 
in  his  duty  to  you." 

"  But  what  if  I  have  failed  in  mine  to  him  ? — "What  if — ■ 
you   used  to  say  I  could  not  understand  Guy — what  if  I 


452  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

have  come  short  towards  him  ?  I,  that  am  accountable  to 
God  for  every  one  of  my  children." 

"  John — John  " — she  knelt  down  and  put  her  arms  round 
his  neck.  "  Husband,  do  not  look  unhajipy.  I  did  not 
mean  to  blame  yovi — we  may  be  wrong,  both  of  us — all  of 
us.  But  we  will  not  be  afraid.  We  know  Who  pities  us, 
even  as  we  pity  our  children." 

Thus  she  spoke,  and  more  to  the  same  purport ;  but  it 
was  a  long  time  before  her  words  brought  any  consolation. 
Then  the  parents  talked  together,  trying  to  arrange  some 
plan  whereby  Guy's  mind  might  be  occupied  and  soothed, 
or  else  Edwin  removed  out  of  his  sight  for  a  little  while. 
Once  I  hinted  at  the  advantage  of  Guy's  leaving  home  ; 
but  Mrs.  Halifax  seemed  to  shrink  from  this  project  as 
though  it  were  a  foreboding  of  perpetual  exile. 

*'No,  no;  anything  but  that.  Beside,  Guy  would  not 
wish  it.  He  has  never  left  me  in  his  life.  His  going  would 
seem  like  the  general  breaking  up  of  the  family." 

Alas  !  she  did  not,  would  not  see  that  the  family  was 
already  "broken."  Broken,  more  than  either  absence, 
marriage,  or  death  itself  could  have  effected. 

One  thing  more  we  had  to  consider — a  thing  at  once 
natural  and  right,  in  any  family,  namely,  how  to  hide  its 
wounds  from  the  chattering  scandalous  world.  And  so, 
when  by  a  happy  chance  there  came  over  tiiat  morning  our 
good  friend  Lady  Oldtower  and  her  carriage  full  of  daugh- 
ters, Mrs.  Halifax  communicated  with  a  simple  dignity  that 
quelled  all  comment,  the  fact  of  "  my  son  Edwin's  engage- 
ment," and  accepted  the  invitation  for  Maud  and  Miss 
Silver,  which  was  willingly  repeated  and  pressed. 

One  thing  I  noticed,  that  in  speaking  of  or  to  the  girl 
who  in  a  single  day  from  merely  the  governess  had  become, 
and  was  sedulously  treated  as,  our  own,  Mrs.  Halifax  in- 
variably called  her  as  heretofore,  "  Miss  Silver,"  or  "  my 
dear,"  never  by  any  chance  " Louise,"  or  "Mademoiselle 
D'Argent." 

Before  she  left  Beechwood,  Edwin  came  in  and  hurrisdly 
spoke  to  his  mother.  What  he  said  was  evidently  painful 
to  both. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  453 

"  I  am  not  aware  of  it,  Edwin  ;  I  had  not  the  slightest 
i7itention  of  offending  her.  Is  she  already  made  your  Judge 
vind  referee  as  to  the  actions  of  your  mother  ?  " 

Edwin  was  a  good  lad,  though  perhaps  a  little  less  lov- 
ing than  the  rest  of  the  boys.  His  self-restraint,  his 
exceeding  patience,  lulled  the  threatened  storm. 

"But  you  will  be  kind  to  her,  mother — I  know  you 
will." 

"  Did  I  not  say  so  ?  " 

"  And  may  I  bring  her  to  you  here  ?  " 

"  If  you  choose." 

It  was  the  first  open  recognition  between  the  mother 
and  her  son's  betrothed.  Their  other  meeting  had  been 
in  public,  when,  with  a  sedulous  dread,  both  had  behaved 
exactly  as  usual,  and  no  word  or  manner  had  betrayed 
their  altered  relations.  Now,  when  for  the  first  time  it 
was  needful  for  Miss  Silver  to  be  received  as  a  daughter 
elect,  with  all  the  natural  sympathy  due  from  one 
woman  to  another  under  similar  circumstances,  all  the 
warmth  of  kindness  due  from  a  mother  to  her  son's  cho- 
sen \Vife — then  the  want,  the  mournful  want,  made  itself 
felt. 

Mrs.  Halifax  stood  at  the  dining-room  windoAv,  trying 
vainly  to  regain  self-control. 

"•  If  I  could  only  love  her.  If  only  she  had  made  me 
love  her  ?"  she  muttered  over  and  over  again. 

I  hoped,  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul,  that  Edwin  had 
not  heard  her — had  not  seen  her  involuntarily  recoil,  as  he 
led  to  his  mother  his  handsome  girl  that  he  seemed  so  proud 
o*f,  his  happy  affianced  wife.  Ilapjnness  melts  some 
natures,  like  spring  and  sunshine.  Louise  looked  up  with 
swimming  eyes. 

"  Oh  !  be  kind  to  me  !  Nobody  was  ever  kind  to  me  till 
I  came  here  ! " 

The  good  heart  gave  way  :  Mrs.  Halifax  opened  her 
arms. 

"Be  true  to  Edwin — love  Edwin,  and  I  shall  love  you — 
I  am  sure  I  shall." 

Kissing  her  once  or  twice,  the  mother  let  fall  a  few  tears  ; 


454  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

then  sat  down,  still  keeping  the  girl's  hand,  and   busying 
herself  with  various  little  kindnesses  about  her. 

'^  Are  you  sure  you  are  well  wrapped  up  ?  Edwin,  see 
that  she  has  my  fur  cloak  in  the  carriage.  What  cold 
fingers  !     Have  some  wine  before  you  start,  my  dear." 

Miss  Silver  altogether  melted  ;  sobbing,  she  murmurea 
something  about  forgiveness. 

'^'Na.j,  did  I  say  a  word  about  forgiveness  ?  Then  do 
no't  you.  Let  us  be  patient — we  shall  all  be  happy  in 
time." 

"  And— Guy  ?  " 

"  Guy  will  be  himself  soon,"  returned  the  mother, 
rather  proudly.  "  We  will  not  mention  him,  if  you  please, 
my  dear." 

At  this  moment,  Guy  must  have  heard  the  carriage- 
wheels  and  guessed  Miss  Silver  was  going  ;  for  he  appeared 
at  the  parlor  door.  He  found  his  mother  toying  with  Miss 
Silver's  hand  ; — Edwin  standing  by,  proud  and  glad,  with 
his  arm  clasped  round  Louise. 

He  did  not  remove  it.  In  his  brother's  very  face, — per- 
haps because  of  the  expression  of  that  face — the  lover  held 
fast  his  own. 

Mrs.  Halifax  rose  up,  alarmed.  '^She  is  just  going, 
Guy.     Shake  hands  and  bid  her  good-bye." 

The  girl's  hand,  which  was  sorrowfully  and  kindly  ex- 
tended, Guy  snatched  and  held  fast. 

"  Let  her  pass,"  cried  Edwin,  angrily. 

"  Most  certainly.  I  have  not  the  least  wish  to  detain 
her.  Good-bye  !  A  jDleasant  journey  ! "  And  still  keep- 
ing her  hand,  he  gazed  with  burning  eyes  on  the  featured 
he  had  so  loved — as  boys  do  love — with  a  wild  imaginative 
passion,  kindled  by  beauty  alone.  "I  shall  claim  my 
right — just  for  once — may  I,  sister  Louise  ?  " 

With  a  glance  of  defiance  at  Edwin,  Guy  caught  his  bro- 
ther's betrothed  round  the  waist  and  kissed  her — once — ■ 
twice — savagely. 

It  was  done  so  suddenly  and  under  such  an  ingenious 
disguise  of  "  right,"  that  open  vengeance  was  impossible. 
But  as  Edwin  hurried  Louise  away,  the  look  that  passed 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  455 

between  the  two  young  men  was  enough  to  blot  out  lience- 
forward  all  friendship,  all  brotherhood.  That  insult 
would  never  be  forgotten. 

She  was  gone — the  house  was  free  of  her  and  Edwin  too. 
Guy  was  left  alone  with  nie  and  his  mother. 

Mrs.  Halifax  sat  sewing.  She  seemed  to  take  no  note 
of  his  comings  and  goings — his  restless  starts — his  fits  of 
dark  musing,  when  his  face  grew  like  the  face  of  some 
stranger,  some  one  whom  he  would  have  shrunk  from — 
any  one  but  our  own  merry  Guy. 

"Mother" — the  voice  startled  me — such  irritable,  intol 
erable  bitterness,  marred  its  once  pleasant  tones.     "  When 
do  they  come  back  ?  '' 

"■  Do  you  mean " 

*' I  mean  those  people." 

"  In  a  week  or  so.  Your  brother  returns  to-night,  of 
course." 

"•  My  brother,  eh  ?  Better  not  say  it — it's  an  ugly 
word." 

Mrs.  Halifax  attempted  no  reproof  ;  she  knew  that  it 
would  have  been  useless — worse  than  useless — then. 

"  Mother,"  Guy  said  at  last,  coming  up  and  leaning 
against  her  chair,  "you  must  let  me  go." 

"  Where,  my  son  ?" 

"Anywhere — out  of  their  sight — those  two.  You  see,  I 
cannot  bear  it.  It  maddens  me — makes  me  wicked — makes 
me  not  myself.  Or  rather  makes  me  truly  mi/self,  which 
is  altogether  wicked." 

"  No,  Guy — no,  my  own  boy.  Have  patience — all  this 
will  pass  away." 

"  It  might,  if  I  had  anything  to  do.  Mother,"  kneeling 
down  by  her  Avith  a  piteous  gaze — "  mother,  you  need  not 
look  so  wretched.  I  wouldn't  harm  Edwin — would  not 
take  from  him  his  happiness  ;  but  to  live  in  sight  of  it  day 
after  day,  hour  after  hour — I  can't  do  it  !  Do  not  ask  me 
— let  me  get  away." 

"  But  where  ?  " 

"  Anywhere,  as  I  said  ;  only  let  me  go  far  away  from 
them,  where  no  possible  news  of  them  can  reach  me.     In 


45G  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

some  place,  oh,  mother  darling  !  where  I  can  trouble  no 
one  and  make  no  one  miserable." 

The  mother  feebly  shook  her  head.  As  if  such  a  spot 
could  be  found  on  earth,  while  she  lived  ! 

But  she  saw  that  Guy  was  right.  To  expect  him  to  re- 
main at  home  was  cruelty.  As  he  had  said,  he  could  not 
bear  it — few  could.  Few  even  among  women — of  men 
much  fewer.  One  great  renunciation  is  possible,  some 
times  easy,  as  death  may  be  ;  but  to  '•'  die  daily  ? "  In 
youth,  too,  with  all  the  passions  vehement,  the  self-knowl- 
edge and  self-control  small  ?  No  ;  Nature  herself,  in 
that  universal  desire  to  escape,  which  comes  with  such  a 
trial,  hints  at  the  unnaturalness  of  the  ordeal  ;  in  which 
soon  or  late,  the  weak  become  paralyzed  or  callous  ;  the 
strong — God  help  them  ! — are  apt  to  turn  wicked. 

Guy's  instinct  of  flight  was,  his  mother  felt,  wisest, 
safest,  best. 

"  My  boy,  you  shall  have  your  desire  ;  you  shall  go." 

I  had  not  expected  it  of  her — at  least,  not  so  immediately. 
I  had  thought,  bound  up  in  him  as  she  was,  accustomed 
to  his  daily  sight,  his  daily  fondness — for  he  was  more 
with  her,  and  "petted"  her  more  than  any  other  of  the 
children — I  had  thought  to  have  seen  some  reluctance, 
some  grieved  entreaty — but  no  !  Not  even  when,  gaining 
her  consent,  the  boy  looked  up  as  if  her  allowing  him  to 
quit  her  was  the  greatest  kindness  she  had  ever  in  his  life 
bestowed. 

"  And  when  shall  I  go  ?  " 

"  Whenever  you  choose." 

"  To-day,  perhaps  I  might  get  away  to-day  ?'* 

"  You  can,  if  you  wish,  my  dear  boy." 

But  no  sooner  had  she  said  it,  than  the  full  force  and 
meaning  of  the  renunciation  seemed  to  burst  upon  her. 
Her  fingers,  which  had  been  smoothing  Guy's  hand  as  it 
lay  on  her  lap,  tightly  closed  round  it  ;  with  the  other  hand 
she  put  back  his  hair,  gazing — gazing,  as  if  it  were  impos- 
sible to  part  with  him. 

"Guy, — oh,  Guy,  my  heart  is  breaking  !  Promise  tluit 
you  will  try  to  be  yourself  again — that  you  will  never  be 


I 

JOHK    HALIFAX.  457 

anything  other  than  my  own  good  boy,  if  I  agree  to  let  you 
go  ?  "  What  he  answered,  or  what  further  passed  between 
them  was  not  for  me  either  to  hear  or  to  know.  I  left  the 
room  immediately. 

When,  some  time  after  John's  hour  for  returning  from 
the  mills,  I  also  returned  to  the  house,  I  found  that  every- 
thing was  settled  for  Guy's  immediate  departure. 

There  was  some  business  in  Spain — something  about  An- 
dalusian  wool — which  his  father  made  the  ostensible  rea- 
son for  the  journey.  It  would  occupy  him  and  distract  his 
mind,  besides  giving  him  constant  necessity  of  change. 
And  they  say  travel  is  the  best  cure  for  the  heartache. 
We  hoped  it  might  prove  so. 

Perhaps  the  sorest  point,  and  one  that  had  been  left  un- 
decided till  both  parents  saw  that  in  Guy's  present  mood  any 
opposition  was  hurtful,  even  dangerous,  was  the  lad's  obsti- 
nate determination  to  depart  alone.  He  refused  his  mother's 
companionship  to  London,  even  his  father's  across  the  coun- 
try to  the  nearest  point  where  one  of  those  new  and  danger- 
ous things  called  railways  tempted  travellers  to  their  destruc- 
tion. But  Guy  would  go  by  it — the  maddest  and  strangest 
way  of  locomotion  pleased  him  best.  So  it  was  settled  he 
should  go,  as  he  j)leaded,  this  very  day, 

A  strange  day  it  seemed — long  and  yet  how  short !  Mrs. 
Halifax  was  incessantly  busy.  I  caught  sight  of  her  now 
and  then,  flitting  from  room  to  room,  with  Guy's  books 
in  her  hand — Guy's  linen  thrown  across  her  arm.  Some- 
times she  stood  a  few  minutes  by  the  window,  doing  a  few 
stitches  of  necessary  work,  which,  when  even  nurse  Wat- 
kins  offered  to  do — Jenny,  who  had  been  a  rosy  lass  when 
Guy  was  born — she  refused  abruptly,  and  went  stitching 
on 

There  were  no  regular  meals  that  day  ;  better  not,  per- 
haps. I  saw  John  come  up  to  his  wife  as  she  stood  sewing, 
and  bringing  her  a  i:)iece  of  bread  and  a  glass  of  wine — but 
she  could  not  touch  either. 

"Mother,  try,"  whispered  Guy,  mournfully.  ''What 
will  become  of  me  if  I  have  made  you  ill  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  fear,  no  fear  I  "     She  smiled,  took  the  wine  and 


458  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

swallowed  it — broke  off  a  bit  of  the  bread, — and  went  on 
with  her  work. 

The  last  hour  or  two  passed  so  confusedly  that  I  do  not 
well  remember  them.  I  can  only  call  to  mind  seeing  Guy 
and  his  mother  everywhere  side  by  side,  doing  everything 
together,  as  if  grudging  each  instant  remaining  till  the  final 
instant  came.  I  have  also  a  vivid  impression  ()f  her  astonish- 
ing composure,  of  her  calm  voice  when  talking  to  Guy  about 
indefinite  trifles,  or,  though  that  was  seldom,  to  any  other 
of  us.  It  never  faltered — never  lost  its  rich,  round,  cheer- 
fulness of  tone  ;  as  if  she  wished  him  to  carry  it  as  such, 
and  no  other — the  familiar  mother's  voice — in  his  memory 
across  the  seas. 

Once  only  it  grew  sharp,  when  Walter,  who  had  hovered 
about  disconsolately,  knelt  down  to  fasten  his  brother's  port- 
manteau. 

"  Xo  !     Let  go  !     I  can  do  everything  myself." 

And  now  the  time  was  fast  flying — her  boy  must  depart. 

All  the  household  collected  in  the  hall  to  bid  Mr.  Guy 
good-bye — Mr.  Guy,  whom  everybody  was  so  fond  of. 
They  believed — which  was  all  that  anyone,  save  ourselves, 
ever  knew — that  sudden  business  had  called  him  away  on  a 
long  and  anxious  journey.  They  lingered  about  him,  re- 
spectfully, with  eager,  honest  blessings,  such  as  it  was  good 
the  lad  should  have — good  that  he  should  bear  away  with 
him  from  England  and  from  home. 

Finally,  Guy,  his  father  and  his  mother,  went  into  the 
study  by  themselves.  Soon  even  his  father  came  out  and 
shut  the  door,  that  there  should  be  not  a  single  witness  to 
the  last  few  words  between  mother  and  son.  These  being 
over,  they  both  came  into  the  hall  together,  brave  and  calm 
— which  calmness  was  maintained  even  to  the  last  good- 

bye. 

Thus  we  sent  our  Guy  away,  cheerfully  and  with  bless- 
ings—away, into  the  wide,  dangerous  world  ;  alone,  with  no 
guard  or  restraint,  except  (and  in  that  except  lay  the  whole 
mystery  of  our  cheerfulness) — the  fear  of  God,  his  father's 
counsels,  and  his  mother's  prayers. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Two  years  rolled  over  Beechwood — two  uneventful  years. 
The  last  of  the  children  ceased  to  be  a  child  ;  and  we  pre- 
pared for  that  great  era  in  all  household  history,  the  first 
marriage  in  the  family.  It  was  to  be  celebrated  very  quietly, 
as  Edwin  and  Jjouise  both  desired.  Time  had  healed  over 
many  a  pang,  and  taught  many  a  soothing  lesson  ;  still  it 
could  not  be  supposed  that  this  marriage  was  without  its 
painfulness. 

Guy  still  remained  abroad  ;  his  going  had  produced  the 
happy  result  intended.  Month  after  month  his  letters  came, 
each  more  hopeful  than  the  last,  each  bringing  balm  to  the 
mother's  heart.  Then  he  wrote  to  others  beside  his  mother. 
Maud  and  Walter  replied  to  him  in  long  home-histories  and 
began  to  talk  without  hesitation — nay,  Avith  great  pride  and 
pleasure—"  of  my  brother  who  is  abroad." 

The  family  wound  was  closing,  the  family  peace  about  to 
be  restored  ;  Maud  even  fancied  Guy  ought  to  come  home 
to  '•  our  wedding  ; " — but  then  she  had  never  been  told  the 
whole  of  past  circumstances  ;  and,  besides,  she  was  still  too 
young  to  understand  love  matters.  Yet  so  mercifully  had 
time  smoothed  down  all  things,  that  it  sometimes  appeared 
even  to  us  elders  as  if  those  three  clays  of  bitterness  were  a 
mere  dream — as  if  the  year  we  dreaded  had  passed  as  calmly 
as  any  other  year.  Save  that  in  this  interval  Ursula's  hair 
had  begun  to  turn  from  brown  to  grey  ;  and  John  first  men- 
tioned, so  cursorily  that  I  cannot  even  now  remember  when 
or  where,  that  slight  pain,  almost  too  slight  to  complain  of, 
which  he  said  warned  him  in  climbing  Enderley  Hill  that  he 
could  not  climb  so  fast  as  when  he  was  young.  And  I  re- 
turned his  smile,  telling  him  we  were  evidently  growing  old 

459 


460  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

men  ;  and  must  soon  set  our  faces  to  descend  the  hill  of  life. 
Easy  enough  I  was  in  saying  this,  thinking,  as  I  often  did, 
with  great  content,  that  there  was  not  the  faintest  doubt 
which  of  us  would  reach  the  bottom  first. 

Yet  I  was  glad  to  have  safely  passed  my  half  century  of 
life — glad  to  have  seen  many  of  John's  cares  laid  to  rest, 
more  especially  those  external  troubles  which  I  have  not 
lately  referred  to — for,  indeed,  they  were  absorbed  and  for- 
gotten in  the  home-troubles  that  came  after.  He  had  lived 
down  all  slanders,  as  he  said  he  would.  Far  and  near  trav- 
elled the  story  of  the  day  when  Jessop's  bank  was  near 
breaking  ;  far  and  near,  though  secretly — for  we  found  it 
out  chiefly  by  its  results — poor  people  whispered  the  tale  of 
a  gentleman  who  had  been  attacked  on  the  high  roads,  and 
Avhose  only  attempt  at  bringing  the  robbers  to  justice  was  to 
help  the  widow  of  one  and  send  the  others  safe  out  of  the 
country  at  his  own  expense,  not  Government's.  None  of 
these  were  notable  or  showy  deeds — scarcely  one  of  them 
got,  even  under  the  disguise  of  asterisks,  into  the  news- 
paper ;  the  "Norton  Bury  Mercury,"  for  its  last  dying 
sting,  still  complained  (and  very  justly),  that  there  was  not 
a  gentleman  in  the  county  whose  name  so  seldom  headed 
a  charity  subscription  as  that  of  John  Halifax,  Esquire,  of 
Beechwood.  But  the  right  made  its  way,  as,  soon  or  late, 
the  right  always  does  ;  he  believed  his  good  name  was  able 
to  defend  itself,  and  it  did  defend  itself  ;  he  had  faith  in 
the  only  victory  worth  having — the  universal  victory  of 
Truth  ;  and  truth  conquered  at  last. 

To  drive  with  him  across  the  country — he  never  carried 
pistols  now — or  to  walk  with  him,  as  one  day  before  Edwin's 
wedding  we  Avalked,  a  goodly  procession,  through  the  fami- 
liar streets  of  Norton  Bury,  was  a  perpetual  pleasure  to  the 
rest  of  the  family.  Everybody  knew  him,  everybody  greeted 
him,  everybody  smiled  as  he  passed — as  though  his  pres- 
ence and  his  recognition  were  good  things  to  have  and  to 
win.  His  wife  often  laughed,  and  said  she  doubted  whether 
even  Mr.  O'Connell  of  Derrynane,  who  was  just  now  mak- 
ing a  commotion  in  Ireland,  lighting  the  fire  of  religious 
and  political  discord  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  County 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  461 

Clare  ; — slie  doubted  if  even  Daniel  O'C'onnell  had  more 
popularity  among  his  own  people  than  John  Halifax  had  in 
the  primitive  neighborhood  where  he  had  lived  so  long. 

Mrs.  Halifax  herself  was  remarkably  gay  this  morning. 
She  had  had  letters  from  Guy  ;  together  with  a  lovely  pre- 
sent, for  which  he  said  be  had  ransacked  all  the  inagazins 
des  modes  in  Paris — a  white  embroidered  China  shawl.  It 
had  arrived  this  morning — Lord  Ravenel  being  the  bearer. 
This  was  not  the  first  time  by  many  that  he  had  brought 
us  news  of  our  Cuy,  and  thereby  made  himself  welcome  at 
Beechwood.  More  welcome  than  he  might  have  been  other- 
wise ;  for  his  manner  of  life  was  so  different  from  ours. 
,  Not  that  Lord  Ravenel  could  be  accused  of  any  likeness  to 
his  father ;  but  blood  is  blood,  and  education  and  habits 
are  not  to  be  easily  overcome.  The  boys  laughed  at  him 
for  his  aristocratic,  languid  ways  ;  Maud  teazed  him  for  his 
mild  cynicism  and  the  little  interest  he  seemed  to  take  in 
anything  ;  while  the  mother  herself  was  somewhat  restless 
about  his  coming,  wondering  what  possible  good  his  ac- 
quaintance could  do  to  us,  or  ours  to  him,  seeing  we  moved 
in  totally  different  spheres.  But  John  himself  was  invari- 
ably kind,  nay,  tender  over  him — we  all  guessed  why.  And 
perhaps  even  had  not  the  young  man  had  so  many  good 
points,  while  his  faults  were  more  negations  than  positive 
ill  qualities,  we  likewise  should  have  been  tender  over  him 
— for  Muriel's  sake. 

He  had  arrived  at  Beechwood  this  morning,  and  falling 
as  usual  into  our  family  routine,  had  come  with  us  to  Nor- 
ton Bury.  He  looked  up  with  more  interest  than  usual  in 
his  pensive  eyes,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  our  old 
house,  and  told  ]\Iaud  how  he  had  come  there  many  years 
ago  with  his  father. 

''That  was  the  first  time  I  ever  met  your  father,"  I  over- 
heard him  say  to  Maud — not  without  feeling  ;  as  if  he 
thought  he  owed  fate  some  gratitude  for  the  meeting. 

Mrs.  Halifax,  in  the  casual  civil  inquiry  which  was  all 
the  old  earl  ever  won  in  our  house,  asked  after  the  health 
of  Lord  Luxmore. 

"'He  is   still  at   Compiegne.      Does  not   Guy  mention 


462  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

him  ?     Lord  Luxmore  takes  the  greatest  pleasure  in  Guy's 
society." 

By  her  start,  this  was  evidently  new  and  not  welcome 
tidings  to  Guy's  mother.  No  wonder.  Any  mother  in 
England  would  have  shrunk  from  the  thought  that  her  best- 
beloved  son — especially  a  young  man  of  Guy's  temjierament, 
and  under  Guy's  present  circumstances — was  thrown  into 
the  society  which  now  surrounded  the  debauched  dotage  of 
the  too-notorious  Earl  of  Luxmore. 

"  My  son  did  not  mention  it.     He  has  been  too  much 
occupied  in  business  matters,  to  write  home  frequently, 
since  he  reached  Paris.     However,  his  stay  there  is  limited  ; " 
and  this  seemed  to  relieve  her.     "I  doubt  if  he  will  have, 
much  time  left  to  visit  Compiegne." 

She  said  no  more  than  this,  of  course,  to  Lord  Luxmore's 
son  ;  but  her  disquiet  was  sufficiently  apparent. 

"It  was  I  who  brought  your  son  to  Compiegne — where 
he  is  a  universal  favorite,  from  his  wit  and  liveliness.  I 
know  no  one  who  is  a  more  pleasant  companion  than  Guy." 

Guy's  mother  bowed — but  coldly. 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Halifax,  you  are  aware  that  the  earl's 
tastes  and  mine  differ  widely — have  always  differed.  But 
he  is  an  old  man,  and  I  am  his  only  son.  He  likes  to  see 
me  sometimes,  and  I  go  : — though,  I  must  confess,  I  take 
little  pleasure  in  the  circle  he  has  around  him." 

"  In  which  circle,  as  I  understand,  my  son  is  constantly 
included  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  It  is  a  very  brilliant  circle.  The  whole 
court  of  Charles  Dix  can  afford  none  mpre  amusing.  For 
the  rest,  what  matters  ?  One  learns  to  take  things  as  they 
seem,  without  peering  below  the  surface.  One  wearies  of 
impotent  Quixotism  against  unconquerable  evils." 

"  That  is  not  our  creed  at  Beech  wood,"  said  Mrs.  Hali- 
fax, abruptly  as  she  ceased  tlie  conversation.  But  ever 
and  anon  it  seemed  to  recur  to  her  mind — ay,  through  all 
the  mirth  of  the  young  people, — all  the  graver  pleasure 
which  the  father  took  in  the  happiness  of  his  son  Edwin  ; 
his  good  son,  who  had  never  given  him  a  single  care.  He 
declared,  this  settling  of  Edwin  had  been  to  him  almost  like 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  463 

the  days  when  he  himself  used  to  come  of  evenings,  ham- 
mer in  hand,  to  put  up  shelves  in  the  house,  or  nail  the 
currant-bushes  against  the  wall,  doing  everything  con 
amove,  and  with  the  utmost  care,  knowing  it  would  come 
under  the  quick  observant  eyes  of  Ursula  March. 

''That  is,  of  Ursula  Halifax — for  I  don't  tliink  I  let  her 
see  a  single  one  of  my  wonderful  doings  until  she  was 
Ursula  Halifax. — Do  you  remember,  Phineas,  when  you 
came  to  visit  us  the  first  time,  and  found  us  gardening  ?" 

"  And  she  had  on  a  white  gown  and  a  sti-aw  hat  with 
blue  ribbons.  What  a  young  thing  she  looked  ! — hardly 
older  than  Mistress  Maud  here." 

John  put  his  arm  round  his  wife's  waist — not  so  slender 
as  it  had  been,  but  comely  and  graceful  still,  repeating — 
with  something  of  the  musical  cadence  of  his  boyisli  read- 
ings of  poetry — a  line  or  two  from  the  sweet  old  English 
song — 

"And  when  with  envy  Time  transported 
Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys, 
You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 
And  I'll  go  wooing  with  uiy  boys." 

Ursula  laughed,  and  for  the  time  being  the  shadow 
passed  from  her  countenance.  Her  husband  had  happily 
not  noticed  it :  and  apparently  she  did  not  wish  to  tell  him 
her  trouble.  She  let  him  spend  a  happy  day,  even  grew 
happy  herself  in  response  to  his  care  to  make  her  so,  by 
the  resolute  putting  away  of  all  painful  present  thoughts, 
and  calling  back  of  sweet  and  soothing  memories  belonging 
to  the  old  married  home.  John  seemed  determined  that, 
if  possible,  the  marriage  that  was  to  be  should  be  as  sacred 
and  as  hopeful  as  their  own. 

So  full  of  it  were  we  all,  that  not  until  the  day  after, 
when  Lord  Eavenel  had  left  us — longing  apparently  to  be 
asked  to  stay  for  the  wedding,  but  John  did  not  ask  him — ■ 
I  remembered  what  he  had  said  about  Guy's  association 
with  Lord  Luxmore's  set.  It  was  recalled  to  me  by  the 
mother's  anxious  face,  as  she  gave  me  a  foreign  letter  to 
post. 


464  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Post  it  yourself,  will  you,  Pliineas  ?  I  would  not  have 
it  miscarry,  or  be  late  in  its  arrival,  on  any  account." 

No,  for  I  saw  it  was  to  her  son,  at  Paris. 

"  It  will  be  the  last  letter  I  shall  need  to  write,"  she 
added,  again  lingering  over  it,  to  be  certain  that  all  was 
correct — the  address  being  somewhat  illegible  for  that  free, 
firm  hand  of  hers.     "  My  boy  is  coming  home." 

"  Guy  coming  home  !     To  the  marriage  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  immediately  after.  He  is  quite  himself  now. 
He  longs  to  come  home." 

"  And  his  mother  ?  " 

His  mother  could  not  speak.  Like  light  to  her  eyes,  like 
life  to  her  heart,  was  the  thought  of  Guy's  coming  home. 
All  that  week  she  looked  ten  years  younger.  With  a  step 
buoyant  as  any  girl's,  she  went  about  the  marriage  prepa- 
rations ;  together  with  other  preparations,  perhaps  dearer 
still  to  the  motherly  heart,  where,  if  any  preference  did 
lurk,  it  was  for  the  one  for  whom — possibly  from  whom — 
she  had  suffered  most,  of  all  her  children. 

John  too,  though  the  father's  joy  was  graver  and  not 
unmixed  with  some  anxiety — anxiety  which  he  always  put 
aside  in  his  wife's  presence — seemed  eager  to  have  his  son 
at  home. 

"  He  is  the  eldest  son,"  he  repeated  more  than  once, 
when  talking  to  me  of  his  hope  that  Guy  would  now  settle 
loermanently  at  Beechwood.  "  After  myself,  the  head  of 
the  family." 

After  John  !  It  was  almost  ridiculous  to  peer  so  far  into 
the  future  as  that. 

Of  all  the  happy  faces  I  saw  the  day  before  the  marriage, 
I  think  the  happiest  was  Mrs.  Halifax's,  as  I  met  her  com- 
ing out  of  Guy's  room,  which,  ever  since  he  left,  had  been 
locked  up,  unoccupied.  Now  his  mother  threw  open  the 
door  with  a  ciieerful  air. 

•'  You  may  go  in  if  you  like,  Uncle  Phineas.  Does  it 
not  look  nice  ?  " 

It  did  indeed,  with  the  fresh  white  curtains  ;  the  bed  all 
in  order  ;  the  book-shelves  arranged,  and  even  the  fowl- 
ing-piece and  fishing-rod  put  in  their  right  places. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  465 

The  room  looked  very  neat,  I  said,  with  an  amused  doubt 
as  to  how  long  it  was  to  remain  so. 

''  That  is  true,  indeed.  How  he  used  to  throw  his  things 
about  !  A  sad  untidy  boy  !  "  And  his  mother  laughed, 
but  I  saw  all  her  features  were  trembling  with  emotion. 

"  He  will  not  be  exactly  a  boy  now.  I  wonder  if  we 
shall  find  him  much  changed." 

"Very  likely.  Brown,  with  a  great  beard;  he  said  so  in 
one  of  his  letters.  I  shall  hardly  know  my  boy  again." — 
With  a  lightiug-up  of  the  eye  that  furnished  a  flat  contra- 
diction to  the  mother's  statement. 

''  Here  are  some  of  Mrs.  Tod's  roses,  I  see." 

"  She  made  me  take  them.  She  said.  Master  Guy  always 
used  to  stop  and  pick  a  bunch  as  ho  rode  past.  She  hopes 
she  shall  see  him  ride  past  on  Sunday  next.  Guy  must  pay 
her  one  of  his  very  first  visits  ;  the  good  old  soul  ! " 

I  hinted  that  Guy  would  have  to  pay  visits  half  over  the 
country,  to  judge  by  the  number  of  invitations  I  had  heard 
of. 

"Yes.  Everybody  wants  to  steal  my  boy.  Everybody 
has  a  welcome  for  him. — How  bright  old  AVatkins  has  pol- 
ished that  gun  I — Sir  Herbert  says,  Guy  must  come  over 
to  the  shooting  next  week.  He  used  to  be  exceedingly 
fond  of  going  to  the  Manor-house." 

I  smiled,  to  see  the  innocent  smile  of  this  good  mother, 
who  would  have  recoiled  at  the  accusation  of  match-mak- 
ing. Yet  I  knew  she  was  thinking  of  her  great  favorite, 
pretty  Grace  Oldtower  ;  who  was  Grace  Oldtower  still,  and 
had  refused,  gossip  said,  half  the  brilliant  matches  in  the 
county,  to  the  amazement  and  strong  disapprobation  of  all 
her  friends — excepting  Mrs.  Halifax. 

"  Come  away,  Phineas  !  "  slightly  sighing,  as  if  her  joy- 
weighed  her  down,  or  as  if  conscious  that  she  was  letting 
fancy  carry  her  too  far  into  the  unknown  future.  "  His 
room  is  quite  ready  now,  whatever  time  the  boy  arrives. 
Come  away." 

She  shut  and  locked  the   door.     To  be  opened — when  ? 

Morning  broke,  and  none  could  have  desired  a  brighter 
marria*(e-morning.     Sunshine  out  of  doors — sunshine  ou 
30 


466  JOHN   HALIFAX.  = 

all  the  faces  within  ;  only  family  faces, — for  no  other  guests  i 
had  been  invited,  and  we  had  kept  the  day  as  secret  as  we 
could  ;  there  was  nothing  John  disliked  more  than  a  show  i 
wedding.  Therefore  it  was  Avitli  some  surprise  that  while  * 
they  were  all  up-stairs  adorning  themselves  for  cliurch,  • 
Maud  and  I,  standing  at  the  hall-door,  saw  Lord  Kavenel's 
travelling  carriage  drive  up  to  it,  and  Lord  Eavenel  him-  ! 
self,  with  a  quicker  and  more  decided  gesture  than  was  I 
natural  to  him,  spring  out.  I 

Maud  ran  i]ito  the  porch  ;  startling  him  much,  apjjar-  , 
ently  ;  for  indeed  she  was  a  sweet  vision  of  youth,  happiness,  j 
and  grace,  in  her  pretty  bridesmaid's  dress.  < 

"  Is  this  the  wedding  morning  ?  I  did  not  know — I  will  : 
come  again  to-Jmorrow  ; "  and  he  seemed  eager  to  escape  j 
back  to  his  carriage.  j 

This  action  relieved  me  from  a  vague  apprehension  of  ill  j 
tidings,  and  made  less  painful  the  first  question  which  rose  ! 
to  my  lips,  ' '  Had  he  seen  Guy  ?  "  \ 

"  No." 

"  We  thought  for  the  moment  it  miglit  be  Guy  come 
home,"  Maud  cried.  "  We  are  expecting  him.  Have  you 
heard  of  him  since  we  saw  you  ?     Is  he  quite  well  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so." 

I  thought  the  answer  brief  ;  but  then  he  was  looking  in- 
tently upon  Guy's  sister,  who  held  his  hands  in  her  child- 
ish, affectionate  way  ;  she  had  not  yet  relinquished  her  privi- 
ege  of  being  Lord  Ravenel's  "pet."  When,  hesitatingly, 
he  proposed  returning  to  Luxmore,  unwilling  to  intrude 
upon  the  marriage,  the  little  lady  would  not  hear  of  it  for 
a  moment.  She  took  the  unexpected  guest  to  the  study, 
left  him  there  with  her  father,  explained  to  her  mother  all 
about  his  arrival  and  his  having  missed  seeing  Guy — appear- 
ing entirely  delighted. 

I  came  into  the  drawing-room  and  sat  watching  the  sun 
shining  on  marriage-garments  and  marriage-faces,  all  as 
bright  as  bright  could  be, — including  the  mother's.  It  had 
clouded  over  for  a  few  moments,  when  the  postman's  ring 
was  heard  ;  but  she  said  at  once  that  it  was  most  unlikely 
Guy  would  write — she  had  told  him  there  was  no  need  to 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  46? 

write.  So  she  stood  content,  smoothing  down  the  soft  folds 
of  her  beautiful  shawl,  which  Guy  meant  her  to  Avear  to- 
day. This,  together  with  his  fond  remembrance  of  her, 
seemed  almost  as  comfortable  as  the  visible  presence  of  her 
boy.     Her  boy,  who  was  sure  to  come  to-morrow. 

"  John,  is  that  you  ?  How  softly  you  came  in.  And 
Lord  Ravenel !  He  knows  we  are  glad  to  see  him.  Shall 
we  make  him  one  of  our  own  family  for  the  time  being,  and 
take  him  with  us  to  see  Edwin  married  ?" 

Lord  Ravenel  bowed. 

"  Maud  tells  us  you  have  not  seen  Guy.  I  doubt  if  he 
will  be  able  to  arrive  to-day  ;  but  we  fully  expect  him  to- 
morrow." 

Lord  Ravenel  bowed  again.  Mrs.  Halifax  said  some- 
thing about  this  unexpected  arrival  of  his. 

"  He  came  on  business,"  John  answered  quickly,  and 
Ursula  made  no  more  inquiries. 

She  stood,  talking  with  Lord  Ravenel — as  I  could  see  her 
stand  now,  playing  with  the  deep  fringe  of  her  shawl  ;  the 
sun  glancing  on  that  rich  silk  dress  of  her  favorite  silver- 
grey  ;  a  picture  of  matronly  grace  and  calm  content,  as 
charming  as  even  the  handsome,  happy  bi'ide. 

I  was  still  looking  at  her,  when  John  called  me  aside.  I 
followed  him  into  the  study. 

"  Shut  the  door." 

By  his  tone  and  look,  I  knew  in  a  moment  that  some- 
thing had  happened. 

"  Yes.     I'll  tell  you  presently — if  there's  time." 

While  he  was  speaking,  some  violent  pain — physical  or 
mental,  or  both — seemed  to  seize  him.  I  had  my  hand  on 
the  door  to  call  Ursula,  but  he  held  me  fast,  with  a  kind  of 
terror. 

"  Call  no  one.     I  am  used  to  it.     Water  !" 

He  drank  a  glassful,  which  stood  by.  breathed  once 
or  twice  heavily,  and  gradually  recovered  himself.  The 
color  had  scarcely  come  back  into  his  face,  when  we  heard 
Maud  run  laughing  through  the  hall. 

"  Father,  where  are  you  ?     AVe  are  waiting  for  you." 

''  I  will  come  in  two  minutes,  my  child." 


468  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Having  said  this,  in  his  own  natural  voice,  he  closed  the 
door  again ,  and  spoke  to  me  rapidly. 

"  Phineas,  I  want  you  to  stay  away  from  church  ;  make 
some  excuse,  or  I  will  for  you.  Write  a  letter  for  me  to 
this  address  in  Paris.  Say — Guy  Halifax's  father  will  be 
there  without  fail,  within  a  week,  to  answer  all  demands."' 

"  All  demands  ! "  I  eclioed,  bewildered. 

He  repeated  the  sentence  word  for  word.  "  Can  you  re- 
member it  ?  Literally,  mind  !  And  post  it  at  once,  be- 
fore we  return  from  church." 

Here  the  mother's  call  was  heard.  ''John,  are  you 
coming  ?  " 

'''  In  a  moment,  love,"  for  her  hand  was  on  the  door  out- 
side ;  but  her  liusband  held  the  other  handle  fast.  He 
then  went  on,  breathlessly.  "You  understand,  Phineas  ? 
And  you  will  be  careful — very  careful  ?  She  must  not 
hnoio — not  till  to-night." 

"  One  word.     Guy  is  alive  and  well  ?" 

'•'  Yes — yes." 

"Thank  God!" 

But  Guy's  father  was  gone  wliile  I  spoke.  Heavy  as  the 
news  might  be — this  ill  news  wliich  had  struck  me  with 
apprehension  the  moment  I  saw  Lord  Ravenel — it  was  still 
endurable.  I  could  not  conjure  up  any  grief  so  bitter  as 
the  boy's  dying. 

Therefore,  with  a  quietness  that  came  naturally  under 
the  compulsion  of  sucli  a  necessity  as  the  j^resent,  I  re- 
joined the  rest,  made  my  excuses,  and  answered  all  objec- 
tions. I  watched  the  marriage  party  leave  the  house.  A 
simple  procession — the  mother  first,  leaning  on  Edwin  ; 
then  Maud,  AValter,  and  Lord  Ravenel  ;  John  walked  last, 
with  Louise  upon  his  arm.  Thus  I  saw  them  move  up  the 
garden  and  through  the  beech-wood,  to  the  little  church 
on  the  hill. 

I  then  wrote  the  letter  and  sent  it  off.  That  done,  I 
went  back  into  the  study.  Knowing  notliing — able  to 
guess  nothing — a  dull  patience  came  over  me,  the  patience 
with  which  we  often  wait  for  unknown,  inevitable  misfor- 
tunes.     Sometimes  I  almost  forgot  Guy  in   my   startled 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  4fi9 

remembrance  of  his  father's  look  as  he  called  me  away,  and 
sat  down — or  rather  dropped  down — into  his  chair.  Was 
it  illness  ?  yet  he  had  not  complained  ;  he  hardly  ever  com- 
plained, and  scarcely  had  a  day's  sickness  from  year  to 
year.  And  as  I  watched  him  and  Louise  up  the  garden,  I 
had  noticed  his  free,  firm  gait,  without  the  least  sign  of 
unsteadiness  or  weakness.  Besides,  he  was  not  one  to 
keep  any  but  a  necessary  secret  from  those  who  loved 
liim.  He  could  not  be  seriously  ill,  or  we  should  have 
known  it. 

Thus  I  pondered,  until  I  heard  the  church  bells  ring  out 
merrily.     The  marriage  was  over. 

I  was  just  in  time  to  meet  them  at  the  front  gates,  which 
they  entered — our  Edwin  and  his  wife — through  a  living 
line  of  smiling  faces,  treading  upon  the  carjiet  of  strewn 
flowers.  Enderley  would  not  be  defrauded  of  its  welcome 
— all  the  village  escorted  the  young  couple  in  triumph 
home.  I  have  a  misty  recollection  of  how  happy  everybody 
looked,  how  the  sun  was  shining,  and  the  bells  ringing,  and 
the  people  cheering — a  mingled  phantasmagoria  of  sights 
and  sounds,  in  Avhich  I  only  saw  one  j^erson  distinctly, — 
John. 

He  waited  while  the  young  folks  passed  in — stood  on  the 
hall-steps — in  a  few  words  thanked  his  people,  and  bade 
them  to  the  general  rejoicing.  They,  uproarious,  answered 
in  loud  hurrahs,  and  one  energetic  voice  cried  out — 

"One  cheer  more  for  Master  Guy  !  " 

Guy's  mother  turned  delighted — her  eyes  shining  with 
proud  tears. 

"  John — thank  them  ;  tell  them  that  Guy  will  thank  them 
himself  to-morrow.'" 

The  master  thanked  them,  but  either  he  did  not  explain, 
or  the  honest  rude  voices  drowned  all  mention  of  the  latter 
fact — that  Guy  would  be  home  to-morrow. 

All  this  while,  and  at  the  marriage-breakfast  likewise, 
Mr.  Halifax  kept  the  same  calm  demeanor.  Once  only, 
when  the  rest  were  all  gathered  round  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom, he  said  to  me —  «^ 

"  Phineas — is  it  done  ?  " 


470  JOHN"    HALIFAX. 

"What  is  done  ?"  asked  Ursula,  suddenly  pausing. 

"  A  letter  I  asked  him  to  write  for  me  this  morning.'* 

Now  I  had  all  my  life  heen  proud  of  John's  face — that  it 
was  a  safe  face  to  trust  in — that  it  could  not,  or  if  it  could, 
it  would  not,  boast  that  stony  calm  under  which  some  men 
are  so  proud  of  disguising  themselves  and  their  emotions 
from  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  them.  If  he  were  sad, 
we  knew  it ;  if  he  were  happy,  we  knew  it  too.  It  was  his 
principle,  that  nothing  but  the  strongest  motive  should 
make  a  man  stoop  to  even  the  smallest  hypocrisy. 

Therefore,  hearing  him  thus  speak  to  his  wife,  I  was 
struck  with  great  alarm.  Mrs.  Halifax  herself  seemed  un- 
easy. 

"  A  business  letter,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Partly  on  business.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  this 
evening." 

She  looked  re-assured.  "  Just  as  you  like  ;  yoa  know  I 
am  not  curious."  But  passing  on,  she  turned  back. 
*' John,  if  it  was  anything  important  to  be  done — anything 
that  I  ought  to  know  at  once,  you  would  not  keep  me  in 
ignorance  ?  " 

"  No— my  dearest  !     No  !  " 

Then  what  had  happened  must  be  something  in  which 
no  help  availed  ?  something  altogether  past  and  irreme- 
diable ;  something  which  he  rightly  wished  to  keep  con- 
cealed, for  a  few  hours  at  least,  from  his  other  children,  so 
as  not  to  mar  the  happiness  of  this  day,  of  which  there 
could  be  no  second,  this  crowning  day  of  their  lives — this 
wedding-day  of  Edwin  and  Louise. 

So,  he  sat  at  the  marriage-table  ;  he  drank  the  marriage 
health  ;  he  gave  them  both  a  marriage-blessing.  Finally, 
he  sent  them  away,  smiling  and  sorrowful — as  is  the  boun- 
den  duty  of  young  married  couples  to  depart — Edwin  paus- 
ing on  the  carriage-step  to  embrace  his  mother  with  espe- 
cial tenderness,  and  whisper  her  to  "give  his  love  to 
Guy." 

"  It  reminds  one  of  Guy's  leaving,"  said  the  mother, 
hastily  brushing  b^ck  the  tears  that  would  spring  and  roil 
down  her  smiling  face.     She  had  never,  until  this  moment, 


JOH>r   HALIFAX.  471 

reverted  to  that  miserable  day.  "  John,  do  you  think  it 
possible  the  boy  can  be  at  home  to-night  ?  " 

John  answered  emphatically,  but  very  softly,  "  No." 

"  Why  not  !  My  letter  would  reach  him  in  full  time. 
Lord  Ravenel  has  been  to  Paris  and  back  since  then. 
But — •"  turning  full  upon  the  young  nobleman — "  I  think 
you  said  you  had  not  seen  Guy  ?  " 

''No." 

"  Did  you  hear  anything  of  him  ?  " 

^a— Mrs.  Halifax—" 

Exceedingly  distressed,  almost  beyond  his  power  of  self- 
restraint,  the  young  man  looked  appealingly  to  John,  who 
replied  for  him  : 

"  Lord  Ravenel  brought  me  a  letter  from  Guy  this  morn- 
iug." 

"  A  letter  from  Guy — and  you  never  told  me.  How  very 
strange  ! " 

Still,  she  seemed  only  to  think  it  "strange."  Some  dif- 
ficulty or  folly,  perhaps — you  could  see  by  the  sudden  flush- 
ing of  her  cheek  and  her  quick,  distrustful  glance  at  Lord 
Ravenel,  what  she  imagined  it  was — that  the  ])oy  had  con- 
fessed to  his  father.  With  an  instinct  of  concealment — 
the  mother's  instinct — for  the  moment  she  asked  no  ques- 
tions. 

We  were  all  still  standing  at  the  hall-door.  Unresisting 
she  suffered  her  husband  to  take  her  arm  in  his  and  brinof 
her  into  the  study. 

"  Now — the  letter,  jilease  !  Children,  go  away  ;  I  want 
to  sj)eak  to  your  father. — The  letter,  John  ?  " 

Her  hand,  which  she  held  out,  shook  much.  She  tried 
to  unfold  the  paper — stopped,  and  looked  up  piteously. 

•'  It  is  not  to  tell  me  he  is  not  coming  home  ?  I  can 
bear  anything,  you  know — lint  he  must  come  home." 

John  only  answered,  "  Read," — and  took  firm  hold  of 
her  hand  while  she  read — as  we  hold  the  hand  of  one  un- 
dergoing great  torture, — which  must  be  undergone,  and 
which  no  human  love  can  either  2:)repare  for,  remove,  oi 
alleviate.  • 

The  letter,  which  I  saw  afterwards,  was  thus — 


472  john  halifax. 

"  Dear  Father  and  Mother, 

"  I  have  disgraced  you  all.  I  have  been  drunk — in  a 
gaming-house.  A  man  insulted  me — it  was  about  my 
father — but  you  will  hear — all  the  world  will  hear  presently. 
I  struck  him — there  was  something  in  my  hand,  and — the 
man  was  hurt. 

"■  He  may  be  dead  by  this  time.     I  don't  know. 

"  I  am  away  to  America  to-night.  I  shall  never  come 
home  any  more.     God  bless  you  all. 

"  Guy  Halifax. 

''P.S. — I  got  my  mother's  letter  to-day.  Mother — I 
was  not  in  my  right  senses,  or  I  should  not  have  done  it. 
Mother,  darling  !  forget  me.  Don't  let  me  have  broken 
your  heart." 

Alas,  he  had  broken  it ! 

"JSTever  come  home  any  more  ! — Never  come  home  any 
more  ! " 

She  repeated  this  over  and  over  again,  vacantly  :  noth- 
ing but  these  five  words. 

Nature  refused  to  bear  it ;  or  rather,  Nature  mercifully 
helped  her  to  bear  it.  When  John  took  his  wife  in  his 
arms,  she  was  insensible  ;  and  remained  so,  with  intervals^ 
for  hours. 

This  was  the  end  of  Edwin's  wedding-day. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Lord  Ravenel  knew — as  all  Paris  did  by  this  time — the 
whole  story.  Though,  as  he  truly  said,  he  had  not  seen 
Guy.  The  lad  was  hurried  olf  immediately,  for  fear  of 
justice  :  hut  he  had  written  from  shipboard  to  Lord  Rave- 
nel, begging  him  liimself  to  take  the  letter  and  break  the 
news  to  us  at  Beechwood. 

The  man  he  had  struck  was  not  one  of  Lord  Luxmore's 
set — though  it  was  through  some  of  his  ''noble"  friends 
Guy  had  fallen  into  his  company.  lie  was  an  Englishman, 
lately  succeeded  to  a  baronetcy  and  estate  ;  his  name — 
how  we  started  to  hear  it,  though  by  Lord  Ravenel  and  by 
us  for  his  sake,  it  was  both  pronounced  and  listened  to,  as 
if  none  of  us  had  ever  heard  it  before — Sir  Gerard  Ver- 
milye. 

As  soon  as  Ursula  recovered,  Mr.  Halifax  and  Lord 
Ravenel  went  to  Paris  together.  This  was  necessary,  not 
only  to  meet  justice,  but  to  track  the  boy — to  whose  desti- 
nation we  had  no  clue  but  the  Avide  word,  America.  Guy's 
mother  hurried  them  away — his  mother,  who  rose  from  her 
bed,  and  moved  about  the  house  like  a  ghost — up-stairs 
and  down-stairs — everywhere — excepting  in  that  room, 
which  was  now  once  more  locked,  and  the  outer  blind 
drawn  down,  as  if  death  himself  had  taken  possession  there. 

Alas  !  Ave  learned  noAV  that  there  may  be  sorrows  bitterei 
even  than  death. 

Mr.  Halifax  went  aAvay.  Then  followed  a  long  season  of 
torpid  gloom — days  or  weeks,  I  hardly  remember — during 
which  we,  living  shut  up  at  Beechwood,  knew  that  our 
name — John's  stainless,  honorable  name — Avas  in  every- 
body's mouth — parroted  abroad  in  every  society — canvassed 

473 


474  JOHlSr   HALIFAX. 

in  every  newspaper.  We  tried,  Walter  and  I,  to  stop  them 
at  first,  dreading  lest  the  mother  might  read  in  some  foul 
print  or  other  scurrilous  tales  about  her  boy  ;  or,  as 'long 
remained  doubtfid,  learn  that  he  was  proclaimed  through 
France  and  England  as  a  homicide— an  assassin.  But 
concealments  were  idle — she  would  read  everything — hear 
everything — meet  everything — even  those  neighbors  who, 
out  of  curiosity  or  sym^Dathy,  called  at  Beechwood.  ISTot 
many  times,  though  ;  they  said  they  could  not  understand 
Mrs.  Halifax.  So,  after  a  while,  they  all  left  her  alone, 
except  good  little  Grace  Oldtower. 

"  Come  often,"  1  heard  her  say  to  this  girl,  whom  she 
was  fond  of  :  they  had  sat  talking  a  whole  morning— idly 
and  pensively  ;  of  little  things  around  them,  never  once 
referring  to  things  outside.  "  Come  often,  though  the 
house  is  dull.  Does  it  not  feel  strange,  with  Mr.  Halifax 
away  ?  " 

Ay,  this  was  the  change — stranger  at  first  than  what  had 
befallen  Guy — for  that  long  seemed  a  thing  we  could  not 
realize  ;  like  a  story  told  of  some  other  family  than  ours. 
The  present  tangible  blank  was  the  house  with  its  head 
and  master  away. 

Curiously  enough,  but  from  his  domestic  habits  easily  ac- 
countable, he  had  scarcely  ever  been  more  than  a  few  days 
absent  from  home  before.  We  missed  him  continually  ; 
in  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  table  ;  in  his  chair  by  the 
fire  ;  his  quick  ring  at  the  hall-bell,  Avhen  he  came  up  from 
the  mills — his  step — his  voice — his  laugh.  The  life  and 
soul  of  the  house  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  it,  from  the 
hour  the  father  went  away. 

I  think  in  the  wonderful  working  of  things — as  we  know 
all  things  do  work  together  for  good — this  fact  was  good  for 
Ursula.  It  taught  her  that,  in  losing  Guy,  she  had  not 
lost  all  her  blessings.  It  showed  her  what  in  the  passion 
of  her  mother-love  she  might  have  been  temjjted  to  forget 
— many  mothers  do — that  beyond  all  maternal  duty,  is  the 
duty  that  a  woman  owes  to  her  husband  ;  beyond  all  loves. 
is  the  love  that  ^as  hers  before  any  of  them  were  born. 

So,  gradually,  as  every  day  John's  letters  came, — and  she 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  475 

used  to  watcli  for  tliem  and  seize  them  as  if  they  Imd  been 
love  letters  ;  as  every  day  she  seemed  to  miss  him  more, 
and  count  more  upon  his  return  ;  referring  all  decisions, 
and  all  little  pleasures  planned  for  her,  to  the  time  '*  when 
your  father  comes  home  ;  " — hope  and  comfort  began  to 
dawn  in  the  heart  of  the  mourning  mother. 

And  when  at  last  John  fixed  the  day  of  his  coming  back, 
I  saw  Ursula  tying  up  the  small  bundle  of  his  letters — his 
letters,  of  which  iu  all  her  happy  life  she  had  had  so  few 
tender,  comforting,  comfortable  letters. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  never  need  to  have  any  more/'  she  said, 
half-smiling — the  faint  smile  which  began  to  dawn  in  her 
poor  face,  as  if  she  must  accustom  it  to  look  bright  again 
in  time  for  her  husband's  coming. 

And  when  the  day  arrived,  she  put  all  the  house  in  trim 
order,  dressed  herself  in  her  prettiest  gown,  sat  patient 
while  Maud  brushed  and  curled  her  hair — how  white  it 
had  turned  of  late  ! — and  then  waited,  with  a  flush  on  her 
clieek — like  that  of  a  young  girl  waiting  for  her  lover — for 
the  sound  of  carriage  Avheels. 

All  that  had  to  be  told  about  Guy — and  it  was  better 
news  than  any  one  of  us  had  hoped  for — John  had  already 
told  in  his  letters.  When  he  came  back,  therefore,  he  was 
burthened  with  no  trouble  undisclosed — greeted  with  no 
anguish  of  fear  or  bitter  remembrance.  As  he  sprang  out 
of  the  post-chaise,  it  was  to  find  his  wife  standing  at  the 
door,  and  his  home  smiling  for  him  its  brightest  welcome. 
No  blessing  on  earth  could  be  like  the  blessing  of  the  father's 
return. 

John  looked  pale,  but  not  paler  than  might  liave  been 
expected.  Grave  too — but  it  was  a  soft  seriousness  alto- 
gether free  from  the  restlessness  of  keen  anxiety.  Tbe  first 
shock  of  tliis  heavy  misfortune  was  over.  He  paid  all  his 
son's  debts  ;  he  hud,  as  far  as  was  possible,  saved  bis  good 
name  ;  he  had  made  a  safe  borne  for  the  lad,  and  heard  of 
his  safely  reaching  it.  in  the  New  World.  Nothing  more 
was  left  but  to  cover  over  the  inevitable  grief,  and  hope 
that  time  would  blot  out  the  intolerable  shame.  That  since 
Guy's  hand  Avas  clear  of  blood — and  since  his  recovery,  Sii 


476  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

Gerard  Yermilye  had  risen  into  a  positive  hero  of  society-  - 
men's  minds  wouhl  gradually  lose  the  impression  of  a  deed 
committed  in  the  heat  of  youth,  and  repented  of  with  such 
bitter  atonement. 

So  the  father  took  his  old  place  and  looked  round  on  the 
remnant  of  his  children,  grave  indeed,  but  not  weighed 
down  by  incurable  suffering.  Something,  deeper  even  than 
the  hard  time  he  had  recently  passed  through,  seemed  to 
have  made  his  home  more  than  ever  dear  to  liim.  He  sat 
in  his  arm-chair,  never  weary  of  noticing  everything  pleas- 
ant about  liim,  of  saying  how  pretty  Beechwood  looked, 
and  how  delicious  it  was  to  be  at  home.  And  j)erpetually, 
if  any  chance  unlinked  it,  his  hand  would  return  to  its  clasp 
of  Ursula's  ; — the  minute  she  left  her  place  by  his  side,  his 
restless  ''^Love,  Avhere  are  you  going?"  would  call  her 
back  again.  And  once,  when  the  children  were  out  of  the 
room,  and  I,  sitting  in  a  dark  corner,  was  probably  thought 
absent  likewise,  I  saw  John  take  his  wife's  face  between  his 
two  hands,  and  look  in  it — the  fondest,  most  lingering, 
saddest  look  ! — then  fold  her  tightlv  to  his  breast. 

"1  must  never  be  away  from  her  again.  Mine — for  as 
long  as  I  live,  mine — mji  wife,  my  Ursula  !" 

She  took  it  all  naturally,  as  she  had  taken  every  expres- 
sion of  his  love  these  nine-and-twenty  years.  I  left  them, 
standing  eye  to  eye,  heart  to  heart,  as  if  nothing  in  this 
world  could  ever  part  them. 

ISText  morning  was  as  gay  as  any  of  our  mornings  used 
to  be,  for,  before  breakfast,  came  Edwin  and  Louise.  And 
after  breakfast  the  father  and  mother  and  I  walked  ujJ  and 
down  the  garden  for  an  hour,  talking  over  the  prospects  of 
the  young  couple.  Then  the  post  came — but  we  had  no 
need  to  watch  for  it  now.  It  only  brought  a  letter  from 
Lord  Eavenel. 

John  read  it  somewhat  more  seriously  than  he  had  been 
used  to  read  these  letters — which  for  the  last  year  or  so  had 
come  often  enough — the  boys  usually  quizzing,  and  Mistress 
Maud  vehemently  defending,  the  delicate  small  handwrit- 
ing, the  exquisite  paper,  the  coroneted  seal  and  the  frank 
iu  the  corner.     John  liked  to  liave  them,  and  his  wife  also 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  477 

. — she  being  not  indifferent  to  the  fact,  confirmed  l)y  many 
other  facts,,  that  if  there  was  one  man  in  the  world  whom 
Lord  Ravenel  honored  and  admired,  it  was  John  Halifax  of 
Beechwood.  But  this  time  her  j^leasure  was  apparently 
damped  ;  and  Avhcn  ]\Iaud,  claiming  the  letter  as  usual, 
spread  abroad,  delightedly,  the  news  that  "  lier"  Lord  Ra- 
venel  was  coming  shortly,  I  imagined  this  visit  was  not  so 
welcome  as  usual  to  the  parents. 

Yet  still,  as  many  a  time  before,  when  Mr.  Halifax  closed 
the  letter,  he  sighed,  looked  sorrowful,  saying  only,  "  Poor 
Lord  Ravenel  ! " 

"John,"  asked  his  wife,  speaking  in  a  whisper,  for  by 
tacit  consent  all  public  allusion  to  his  doings  at  Paris  was 
avoided  in  the  family — "  did  yon,  by  any  chance,  hear  any- 
thing of you  know  whom  I  mean  ?  " 

''Not  one  syllable." 

"  You  inquired  ?  "  Ho  assented.  "  I  knew  you  would. 
She  must  be  almost  an  old  woman  now,  or  perhaps  she  is 
dead.     Poor  Caroline  !  " 

It  was  the  first  time  for  years  and  years  that  this  name 
had  been  breathed  in  our  household.  Involuntarily  it  car- 
ried me  back — perhaps  others  besides  me — to  the  day  at 
Longfield  when  little  Guy  had  devoted  himself  to  his 
"  pretty  lady  ;  "  when  we  first  heard  that  other  name  which 
by  a  curious  conjuncture  of  circumstances  had  since  be- 
come so  fatally  familiar,  and  which  would  henceforward 
be  like  the  sound  of  a  dead-bell  in  our  family — Gerard 
Vermilye. 

On  Lord  Ravenel's  re-appearance  at  Beechwood — and  he 
seemed  eager  and  glad  to  come — I  was  tempted  to  wish  him 
away.  He  never  crossed  the  threshold  but  his  presence 
brought  a  shadow  over  the  parents'  looks — and  no  wonder. 
The  young  people  were  gay  and  friendly  as  ever  ;  made 
him  always  welcome  with  us  ;  and  he  rode  over  daily  from 
desolate,  long-uninhabited  Luxmore,  where,  in  all  its  deso- 
lation, he  appeared  so  fond  of  abiding. 

He  wanted  to  take  Maud  and  Walter  over  there  one  day, 
to  see  some  magnificent  firs  that  were  being  cut  down  in  a 
wholesale  massacre,  leaving  the  grand  old  hall  as  bare  as  a 


478  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

workhouse  front.  But  the  father  objected  ;  he  was  clearly 
determined  that  all  the  hospitalities  between  Luxmore  and 
Beechwood  should  be  on  the  Beechwood  side. 

Lord  Ravenel  apparently  perceived  this.  "  Luxmore  is 
not  Comjiiegne/'  he  said  to  me,  with  his  dreary  smile,  half- 
sad,  half-cynical.  "  Islv.  Halifax  might  indulge  me  with 
the  society  of  his  children." 

And  as  he  lay  on  the  grass — it  was  full  summer  now — 
watching  Maud's  white  dress  flit  about  under  the  trees,  I 
saw,  or  fancied  I  saw,  something  ditferent  to  any  former 
expression  that  had  ever  lighted  up  the  soft  languid  mien 
of  William  Lord  Ilavenel. 

"How  tall  that  child  has  gi'own  lately  !  She  is  about 
nineteen,  I  think  ?  " 

"Not  seventeen  till  December." 

"  Ah,  so  3'oung  ? — Well,  it  is  pleasant  to  be  young  ! — 
Dear  little  Maud^! " 

He  turned  on  one  side,  hiding  the  sun  from  his  eyes  with 
those  delicate  ringed  hands — which  many  a  time  our  boys 
had  laughed  at,  saying  they  were  mere  lady's  hands,  fit  for 
no  work  at  all. 

Perhaps  Lord  Eavenel  felt  the  cloud  that  had  come  over 
our  intercourse  with  him  ;  a  cloud  which,  considering  late 
events,  was  scarcely  unnatural  :  for  when  evening  came, 
his  leave-taking,  always  a  regret,  seemed  now  as  painful  as 
his  hlase  indifference  to  all  emotions,  pleasant  or  unpleas- 
ant, could  allow.  He  lingered — he  hesitated — he  repeated 
many  times  how  glad  he  should  be  to  see  Beechwood  again  ; 
how  all  the  world  was  to  him  "  flat,  stale,  and  unprofit- 
able," excejot  Beechwood. 

John  made  no  special  answer  ;  except  that  frank  smile, 
not  without  a  certain  kindly  satire,  under  which  the  young 
nobleman's  Byronic  affectations  generall}^  melted  away  like 
mists  in  the  morning.  He  kindled  up  into  warmth  and 
manliness. 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Halifax — I  thank  you  heartily  for  all 
you  and  your  household  have  been  to  me.  I  trust  I  shall 
enjoy  your  friendship  for  many  years.  And  if,  in  any  way, 
I  might  offer  mine,  or  any  small  influence  in  the  world — ''' 


;> 


JOHIST   HALIFAX.  479 

"Your  influence  is  hot  small,"  John  returned  earnestly, 
"  I  have  often  told  you  so.  I  know  no  man  who  has  wider 
opportunities  than  you  have." 

"  But  I  have  let  them  slip — for  ever. 

"No,  not  for  ever.  You  are  young  still ;  you  have  half 
a  lifetime  before  you." 

"Have  I?"  And  for  the  moment  one  would  hardly 
have  recognized  the  sallow,  spiritless  face,  that  with  all  the 
delicacy  of  boyhood  still,  at  times  looked  so  exceedingly 
old. 

"'  No,  no,  Mr.  Halifax,  who  ever  heard  of  a  man  begin- 
ning life  at  seven-and-thirty  ?  " 

"Are  you  really  seven-and-thirty  ?  "  asked  Maud. 

"  Yes — yes,  my  girl.     Is  it  so  very  old  ?  " 

He  patted  her  on  the  shoulder,  took  her  hand,  gazed  at 
it— the  round,  rosy,  girlish  hand — with  a  melancholy  ten- 
derness ; — then  bade  "  Good-bye"  to  us  all  generally,  and 
rode  off. 

It  struck  me  then,  though  I  hurried  the  thought  away — 
it  struck  me  afterwards,  and  does  now  with  renewerl  sur- 
prise— how  strange  it  was  that  the  mother  never  noticed  or 
took  into  account  certain  possibilities  that  Avould  have  oc- 
curred naturally  to  any  worldly  mother.  I  can  only  explain 
it  by  remembering  the  unworldliness  of  our  lives  at  Beech- 
wood,  the  heavy  cares  which  now  pressed  upon  us  from 
Avithout,  and  the  notable  fact — which  our  own  family  ex- 
perience ought  to  have  taught  us,  yet  did  not — that  in  cases 
like  this,  often  those  Avhom  one  would  have  expected  to  be 
most  quick-sighted,  are  the  most  strangely,  irretrievably, 
mournfully  blind. 

When,  the  very  next  day.  Lord  Ravenel,  not  on  horse- 
back but  in  his  rarel3'-used  luxurious  coroneted  carriage, 
drove  up  to  Bcechwood,  every  one  iii  the  house  except 
myself   was    inconceivably   astonished    to    see    him    back 


agam. 


He  said  that  he  had  delayed  his  journey  to  Paris,  but 
gave  no  explanation  of  that  delay.  He  joined  as  usual  in 
our  mid-day  dinner  ;  and  after  dinner,  still  as  usual,  took 
a  walk  with  me  and  Maud.     It  happened  to  be  through 


480  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

the  beeeli-wood^  almost  the  identical  path  that  I  remembered 
taking;  years  and  years  ago,  Avith  John  and  Ursula.  I 
was  surprised  to  hear  Lord  Ravenel  allude  to  the  fact,  a 
well-known  fact  in  our  family  ;  for  I  think  all  fathers  and 
mothers  like  to  relate,  and  all  children  to  hear,  the  slightest 
incidents  of  the  parents'  courting  days. 

"  You  did  not  know  father  and  mother  when  they  were 
young  ?  "  said  Maud,  catching  our  conversation  and  flash- 
ing back  her  innocent,  merry  face  upon  us. 

"No,  scarcely  likely."  And  he  smiled.  ''Oh,  yes — it 
might  have  been — I  forget,  I  am  not  a  young  man  now. 
How  old  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halifax  when  they  married  ?  " 

"  Father  was  twenty-one  and  mother  was  eighteen — only 
a  year  older  than  I."  And  Maud,  half  ashamed  of  this 
suggestive  remark,  ran  away.  Her  gay  candor  proved  to 
me — perhaps  to  others  besides  me — the  girl's  entire  free- 
heartedness.  The  frank  innocence  of  childhood  was  still 
hers. 

Lord  Ravenel  looked  after  her  and  sighed.  "It  is  good 
to  marry  early  ;  do  you  not  think  so,  Mr.  Fletcher  ?"' 

I  told  him — (I  was  rather  sorry  after  I  had  said  it,  if  one 
ought  to  be  sorry  for  having,  when  questioned,  given  one's 
honest  opinion) — I  told  him  that  I  thought  those  hapj)iest 
who  found  their  happiness  early,  but  that  I  did  not  see 
why  happiness  should  be  rejected  because  it  was  the  will  of 
Providence  that  it  should  not  be  found  till  late. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  dreamily,  "  I  wonder  whether  I 
shall  ever  find  it." 

I  asked  him — it  was  by  an  impulse  irresistible — why  he 
had  never  married  ? 

"  Because  I  never  found  any  woman  either  to  love  or  to 
believe  in.  AVorse,"  he  added,  bitterly,  "I  did  not  think 
there  lived  the  woman  who  could  be  believed  in." 

We  had  come  out  of  the  beech- wood  and  were  stand- 
ing by  the  low  churchyard  wall  ;  the  sun  glittered  on  the 
white  marble  headstone  on  which  was  inscribed,  "  Muriel 
Joy  Halifax." 

Lord  Ravenel  leaned  over  the  wall,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
that  little  grave.     After  a  while,  he  said,  sighing, — 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  481 

"  Do  you  know.  I  have  thought  sometimes  that,  had  she 
lived,  I  could  have  loved — I  mii;-lit  have  married — that 
child  ! " 

Here  Maud  sprang  towards  us.  In  her  playful  tyranny, 
which  she  loved  to  exercise  and  he  to  submit  to,  she  in- 
sisted on  knowing  what  Lord  Ravenel  was  talking  about. 

"I  was  saying,"  he  answered,  taking  both  her  hands 
and  looking  down  into  her  bright,  unshrinking  eyes,  "J 
was  saying,  how  dearly  I  loved  your  sister  Muriel." 

"•  I  know  that,"  and  Maud  became  grave  at  once.  *'  I 
know  you  care  for  me  because  lam  like  my  sister  Muriel." 

*'  If  it  were  so,  Avould  you  be  sorry  or  glad  ?" 

"Glad,  and  proud  too.  But  you  said,  or  you  were  go- 
ing to  say,  something  more.     What  Avas  it  ?  " 

He  hesitated  long,  then  answered — 

"  I  will  tell  you  another  time." 

Maud  went  away  rather  cross  and  dissatisfied,  but  evi- 
dently suspecting  nothing.  For  me,  I  began  to  bo  ser- 
iously uneasy  about  her  and  Lord  Kavenel. 

Of  all  kinds  of  love,  there  is  one  which  common  sense 
and  romance  have  often  combined  to  liold  obnoxious,  im- 
probable, or  ridiculous,  but  which  has  always  seemed  to  me 
the  most  real  and  pathetic  form  that  the  passion  ever 
takes  ; — I  mean,  love  in  spite  of  great  disparity  of  age. 
Even  when  this  is  on  the  woman's  side,  I  can  imagine  cir- 
cumstances that  would  make  it  far  less  ludicrous  and  piti- 
ful ;  and  there  are  few  things  to  me  more  touching,  more 
full  of  sad  earnest,  than  to  see  an  old  man  in  love  with  a 
young  girl. 

Lord  Ravenel's  case  would  hardly  come  under  this  cate- 
gory ;  yet  the  difference  between  seventeen  and  thirty- 
seven  was  sufficient  to  warrant  in  him  a  tremblina:  uncer- 
tainty,  an  eager  catching  at  the  skirts  of  tliat  vanishing 
youth  whose  preciousness  he  never  seemed  to  have  recog- 
nized till  now.  It  was  with  a  mournful  interest  that  all 
day  I  watched  him  follow  the  child  about,  gather  her  posies, 
help  her  to  water  her  flowers,  and  accommodate  himself  to 
those  whims  and  fancies,  of  which,  as  the  pet  and  the  young' 
est.  Mistress  Maud  had  her  full  share. 
31 


482  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

When,  at  her  usual  hour  of  half-past  nine,  the  little  lady 
was  summoned  away  to  bed,  "to  keep  up  her  roses,"  he 
looked  half  resentful  of  the  mother's  interference. 

"  Maud  is  not  a  child  now  ;  and  this  may  be  my  last 
night — "  he  stopped,  sensitively,  at  the  involuntary  fore- 
boding. 

"  Your  last  night  ?  Nonsense  !  you  Avill  come  back  soon 
again.     You  must — you  shall  !  "  said  Maud,  decisively. 

"  I  hope  I  may— I  trust  in  Heaven  I  may  ! " 

He  spoke  low,  holding  her  hand  distantly  and  reverently, 
not  attempting  to  kiss  it,  as  in  all  his  former  farewells  he 
had  invariably  done. 

"  Maud,  remember  me  !  However  or  whenever  I  come 
back,  dearest  child,  be  faithful,  and  remember  me  !  " 

Maud  fled  away  with  a  sob  of  childish  pain — partly  anger, 
the  mother  thought — and  slightly  apologized  to  the  guest 
for  her  daughter's  "naughtiness." 

Lord  Eavenel  sat  silent  for  a  long,  long  time. 

Just  when  we  thought  he  proposed  leaving,  he  said, 
abruptly,  "  Mr.  Halifax,  may  I  have  five  minutes'  speech 
with  you  in  the  study  ?  " 

The  five  minutes  extended  to  half  an  hour.  Mrs.  Halifax 
wondered  what  on  earth  they  were  talking  about.  I  held 
my  peace.     At  last  the  father  came  in  alone. 

"  John,  is  Lord  Eavenel  gone  ?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

'MVhat  could  he  have  wanted  to  say  to  you  ?" 

John  sat  down  by  his  wife,  picked  up  the  ball  of  her 
knitting,  rolled  and  unrolled  it.  She  saAv  at  once  that 
something  had  grieved  and  perplexed  him  exceedingly. 
Her  heart  shrunk  back — that  still  sore  heart ! — recoiled 
with  a  not  unnatural  fear. 

"  Oh,  husband,' is  it  any  new  misfortune  ?" 

''No,  love,"  cheering  her  with  a  smile  ;  "nothing  that 
fathers  and  mothers  in  general  would  consider  as  such.  He 
has  asked  me  for  our  Maud." 

"What  for  ?"  was  the  mother's  first  exceedingly  simple 
question — and  then  she  guessed  its  answer.  "Impossible  ! 
Ridiculous — absolutely  ridiculous  !     She  is  only  a  child." 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  483 

"  Nevertheless.  Lord  Ravenel  wishes  to  marry  our  little 
Maud." 

"  Lord  Ravenel  wislies  to  marry  o\w  Maud  ! " 

Mrs.  Halifax  repeated  this  to  herself  more  than  once,  be- 
fore she  was  able  to  entertain  it  as  a  reality.  When  she  did, 
the  first  impression  it  made  upon  her  mind  was  altogether 
pain. 

"  Oh,  John  !  I  hoped  we  had  done  with  these  sort  of 
things  ;  I  thought  we  should  have  been  left  in  peace  with 
the  rest  of  our  children." 

John  smiled  again  ;  for,  indeed,  there  was  a  comical  side 
to  her  view  of  the  subject ;  but  its  serious  phase  soon  re- 
turned ;  doubly  so,  when,  looking  up,  they  both  saw  Lord 
Ravenel  standing  before  them.  Firm  his  attitude  was, 
firmer  than  usual  ;  and  it  was  with  sometliingof  his  father's 
stately  air,  mingled  with  a  more  chivalric  and  sincerer  grace, 
that  he  stooped  forward  and  kissed  the  hand  of  Maud's 
mother. 

"  Mr.  Halifax  has  told  you  all,  I  believe  ?" 

"He  has." 

"  May  I,  then,  with  entire  trust  in  you  both,  await  my 
answer  ?" 

He  waited  it,  patiently  enough,  with  little  apparent  doubt 
as  to  what  it  would  be.  Besides,  it  was  only  the  prior  ques- 
tion of  parental  consent,  not  the  vital  point  of  Maud's  pre- 
ference. iVnd,  with  all  his  natural  humility  Lord  Ravenel 
might  be  forgiven  if,  brought  up  in  the  world,  he  was 
aware  of  his  position  therein  ; — nor  quite  unconscious  that 
it  was  not  merely  William  Ravenel,  but  the  only  son  and 
heir  of  the  Earl  of  Luxmore,  who  came  a-wooing. 

ISTot  till  after  a  long  pause,  and  even  a  whispered  word 
or  two  between  the  husband  and  Avife,  who  knew  each 
other's  minds  so  Avell  that  no  more  consultation  was  needed 
— did  the  suitor  again,  with  a  more  formal  air,  ask  for  an 
answer. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  give.  I  find  that  my  wife,  like  my- 
self, had  no  idea  of  your  feelings.  The  extreme  sudden- 
ness— " 

Pardon   me :    my   intention   has     not    been    sudden. 


a 


484  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

It  is  the  growth  of  many  months — years  I  might  almost 
say." 

"  We  are  the  more  grieved." 

"Grieved?" 

Lord  Ravenel's  extreme  surprise  startled  him  from  the 
mere  suitor  into  the  lover  ;  he  glanced  from  one  to  the 
other  in  undisguised  alarm.  John  hesitated  ;  the  mother 
said  something  about  the  "great  difference  between 
them." 

"In  age,  do  you  mean  ?  I  am  aware  of  that,"  he  an- 
swered, with  some  sadness.  "  But  twenty  years  is  not  an 
insuperable  bar  in  marriage." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  thoughtfully. 

"  And  for  any  other  disparity — in  fortune  or  rank " 

"  I  think.  Lord  Eavenel," — and  the  mother  spoke  with 
her  "dignified"  air — "you  know  enough  of  my  husband's 
character  and  opinions  to  be  assured  how  lightly  he  would 
hold  such  a  disparity — if  you  allude  to  that  supposed  to 
exist  between  the  son  of  the  Earl  of  Luxmore  and  the 
daughter  of  John  Halifax." 

The  young  nobleman  colored,  as  if  with  ingenuous  shame 
at  what  he  had  been  implying.  "  I  am  glad  of  it.  Let 
me  assure  you  there  will  be  no  impediments  on  the  side  of 
my  family.  The  earl  has  long  wished  me  to  marry.  He 
knows  well  enough  that  I  can  marry  whom  I  please — and 
shall  marry  for  love  only.  Give  me  your  leave  to  win  your 
little  ]\Laud." 

A  dead  silence. 

"  Again  pardon  me,"  Lord  Ravenel  said  with  some 
hauteur;  "I  cannot  have  clearly  explained  myself.  Let 
me  repeat,  Mr.  Halifax,  that  I  ask  your  permission  to  win 
your  daughter's  affection,  and,  in  due  time,  her  hand." 

*'  I  would  that  you  had  asked  of  me  anything  that  it 
could  be  less  impossible  to  give  you." 

"'  Impossible  !  What  do  you  mean  ? — Mrs.  Halifax — " 
He  turned  instinctively  to  the  woman — the  mother. 

Ursula's  eyes  were  full  of  a  sad  kindness — the  kindness 
any  mother  must  feel  towards  one  who  worthily  woos  her 
daughter — but  she  replied  distinctly — 


JOHN    HALIFAX,  485 

"  I  feel,  witli  my  husband,  that  such  a  marriage  would 
be  impossible." 

Lord  Ravenel  grew  scarlet — sat  down — rose  again,  and 
stood  facing  them,  pale  and  haughty. 

"  If  I  may  ask — your  reasons  ?  '' 

"Since  you  ask — certainly,"  John  replied.  ''Though 
believe  me,  I  give  them  with  the  deepest  pain.  Lord  Rav- 
enel, do  you  not  yourself  see  that  our  Maud " 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  he  interrupted,  "  There  is  not,, 
there  cannot  be,  any  previous  attachment  ?" 

The  supposition  made  the  parents  smile.  "Indeed, 
nothing;  of  the  kind  :  she  is  a  mere  child." 

"You  think  her  too  young  for  marriage  then  ?"  was  the 
eager  answer.  "Be  it  so.  I  will  wait,  though  my  youth, 
alas  !  is  slipping  from  me  ;  but  I  will  wait — two  years, 
three — any  time  you  choose  to  name." 

John  needed  not  to  reply.  The  very  sorrow  of  his  deci- 
sion showed  how  inevitable  and  irrevocable  it  was. 

Lord  Ravenel's  pride  rose  against  it. 

"I  fear  in  this  my  novel  position  I  am  somewhat  slow 
of  comprehension.  Would  it  be  so  great  a  misfortune  to 
your  daughter  if  I  made  her  Viscountess  Ravenel,  and  in 
course  of  time  Countess  of  Luxmore  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it  would.  Her  mother  and  I  would  rather  see 
our  little  Maud  lying  beside  her  sister  Muriel,  than  see  her 
Countess  of  Luxmore." 

These  words,  hard  as  they  were,  John  uttered  so  softly 
and  witli  such  infinite  grief  and  pain,  that  they  struck  the 
young  man,  not  with  anger,  but  with  an  indefinite  awe,  as 
if  a  ghost  from  his  youth — his  wasted  youth — had  risen  up 
to  point  out  that  truth,  and  show  him  that  what  seemed  in- 
sult or  vengeance,  was  only  a  bitter  necessity. 

All  he  did  was  to  repeat,  in  a  subdued  manner — "  Your 
reasons  ? " 

"'  Ah,  Lord  Ravenel !  "  John  answered  sadly,  "  do  you 
not  see  yourself  that  the  distance  between  us  and  you  is 
wide  as  the  poles  ?  Not  in  worldly  things,  but  in  things 
far  deeper  ; — personal  things,  which  st;-ike  at  the  root  of 
love,  home — nay,  honor." 


486  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Lord  Ravenel  started.  "Would  you  imply  that  anything 
in  my  past  life,  aimless  and  useless  as  it  may  have  been,  is 
unworthy  of  my  honor — the  honor  of  our  house  ?  " 

Saying  this  he  stopped — recoiled — as  if  suddenly  made 
aware  by  the  very  words  himself  had  uttered,  what — con- 
trasted with  the  unsullied  dignity  of  the  tradesman's  life, 
the  spotless  innocence  of  the  tradesman's  daughter — what 
a  foul  tattered  rag,  lit  to  be  torn  down  by  an  honest  gust, 
was  that  flaunting  emblazonment,  the  so-called  "  honor  "  of 
Luxmore  ! 

"  I  understand  you  now.  '  The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall 
be  visited  upon  the  children,'  as  your  Bible  says — your 
Bible,  that  I  had  half  begun  to  believe  in.  Be  it  so.  Mr. 
Halifax,  I  will  detain  you  no  longer." 

John  intercepted  the  young  man's  departure. 

"  No,  you  do  not  understand  me.  .  I  hold  no  man  ac- 
countable for  any  errors,  any  shortcomings,  except  his 
own." 

"  I  am  to  conclude,  then,  that  it  is  to  myself  you  refuse 
your  daughter  ?  " 

-It  is." 

Lord  Ravenel  once  more  bowed,  with  sarcastic  emphasis. 

"  I  entreat  you  not  to  mistake  me,"  John  continued, 
most  earnestly.  "  I  know  nothing  of  you  that  the  world 
would  condemn,  much  that  it  would  even  admire  ;  but 
your  world  is  not  our  world,  nor  your  aims  our  aims.  If  I 
gave  you  my  little  Maud,  it  would  confer  on  you  no  lasting 
happiness,  and  it  would  be  thrusting  my  child,  my  own 
flesh  and  blood,  to  the  lirink  of  that  v/hirlpool  where,  soon 
or  late,  every  miserable  life  must  go  down." 

Lord  Ravenel  made  no  answer.  His  new-born  energy, 
his  pride,  his  sarcasm,  had  successively  vanished  ;  dead, 
passive  melancholy  resumed  its  empire  over  him.  Mr. 
Halifax  regarded  him  with  mournful  compassion. 

"  0  that  I  had  foreseen  this  !  I  would  have  placed  the 
breadth  of  all  England  between  you  and  my  child." 

"  Would  you  ?  " 

"  Understand  me.  Not  because  you  do  not  possess  our 
warm  interest,  our  friendship  :  both  will  always  be  yours. 


JOHN"   HALIFAX.  487 

But  these  are  external  ties,  which  may  exist  through  many 
ditTerences.  In  marriage  tliere  must  be  perfect  unity  ; — 
one  aim,  one  faith,  one  love,  or  the  marriage  is  incomplete, 
unholy — a  mere  civil  contract  and  no  more." 

Lord  Ravenel  looked  up  amazed  at  this  doctrine,  then 
sat  awhile,  pondering  drearily. 

"  Yes,  you  may  be  right,"  at  last  he  said.  "  Your  ^faud 
is  not  for  me,  nor  those  like  nu'.  Between  us  and  you  is 
that  'great  gulf  fixed  ;' — what  did  the  old  fable  say  ?  I 
forget — Cite  sara  sard!  I  am  but  as  others:  I  am  but 
what  I  was  born  to  be." 

"Do  you  recognize  what  you  were  born  tolte  ?  Xot  only 
a  nobleman,  but  a  gentleman  ;  not  only  a  gentleman,  but 
a  man — man,  made  in  the  image  of  God.  How  can  you, 
how  dare  you,  give  the  lie  to  your  Creator  ?" 

''What  has  he  given  me?  What  have  I  to  thank  him 
for  ?  " 

"First  manhood;  the  manhood  His  Son  disdained  not 
to  wear  ;  worldly  gifts,  such  as  rank,  riches,  inlluence, 
things  which  others  have  to  spend  half  an  existence  in 
earning;  life  in  its  be.st  prime,  with  imicli  of  youth  yet 
remaining — with  grief  endured,  wisdom  learnt,  experi- 
ence won.  Would,  to  Heaven,  that  by  any  poor  word  of 
mine  I  could  make  you  feel  all  that  you  are — all  that  you 
might  be  ! " 

A  gleam,  bright  as  a  boy's  hope,  wild  as  a  boy's  daring, 
flashed  from  those  listless  eyes — then  faded. 

"  You  mean,  Mr.  Halifax,  what  I  might  liave  been. 
Now  it  is  too  late." 

"  Thei'e  is  no  such  word  as  '  too  late,'  in  the  wide  world 
— nay,  not  in  the  universe.  What !  shall  we,  whose  atom 
of  time  is  but  a  fragment  out  of  an  ever-present  eternity — 
shall  we,  so  long  as  we  live,  or  even  at  our  life's  ending, 
dare  to  cry  out  to  the  Eternal  One,  '  It  is  too  late  ! ' " 

As  John  spoke,  in  much  more  excitement  than  was  usual 
to  him,  a  sudden  flush  or  rather  spasm  of  color  flushed  his 
face,  then  faded  away,  leaving  him  pallid  to  the  very  lips. 
He  sat  down  hastily,  in  his  frequent  attitude,  with  the  left 
arm  passed  across  his  breast. 


488  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  Lord  Eavenel."  His  voice  was  faint,  as  though  speech 
was  painful  to  him. 

The  other  looked  up,  the  old  look  of  reverent  attention, 
which  I  remembered  in  the  boy-lord  who  came  to  see  us  at 
Norton  Bury  ;  in  the  young  "  Anselmo,"  whose  enthusiastic 
hero-worship  had  fixed  itself,  with  an  almost  unreasoning 
trust,  on  Muriel's  father. 

"  Lord  Ravenel,  forgive  anything  I  have  said  that  may 
have  hurt  you.  It  would  grieve  me  inexpressibly  if  we  did 
not  part  as  friends." 

^^Part?" 

"  For  a  time,  we  must.  T  dare  not  risk  further  either 
your  happiness  or  my  child's." 

'' No,  not  hers.  Guard  it.  I  blame  you  not.  The  love- 
ly, innocent  child  !  God  forbid  she  should  ever  have  a 
life  like  mine  ! " 

He  sat  silent,  his  clasped  hands  listlessly  dropping,  his 
countenance  dreamy  ;  yet,  it  seemed  to  me,  less  hopelessly 
sad  ;  then  with  a  sudden  effort  rose. 

"  I  must  go  now." 

Crossing  over  to  Mrs.  Halifax,  he  thanked  her,  with 
much  emotion,  for  all  her  kindness. 

"  For  your  husband,  I  owe  him  more  than  kindness,  as 
perhaps  I  may  prove  some  day.  If  not  try  to  believe  the 
best  of  me  you  can.     Good-bye." 

They  both  said  good-bye,  and  bade  God  bless  him  ;  with 
scarcely  less  tenderness  than  if  things  had  ended  as  he 
desired,  and,  instead  of  this  farewell,  sad  and  indefinite 
beyond  most  farewells,  they  were  giving  the  parental  wel- 
come to  a  newly-chosen  son. 

Ere  finally  quitting  us,  Lord  Ravenel  turned  back 
to  speak  to  John  once  more,  hesitatingly  and  mourn- 
fully. 

"If  she— if  the  child  should  ask  or  wonder  about  my 
absence — she  likes  me  in  her  innocent  way,  you  know — you 
will  tell  her— What  shall  you  tell  her  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     It  is  best  not." 

"  Ay,  it  is,  it  is." 

He  shook  hands  with  us  all  three,  without  saying  any- 


1 

i 
JOHN    HALIFAX.  489  j 

thing  else  ;  then  the  carriage  rolled  away,  and  we  saw  his 
face — that  pale,  gentle,  melancholy  face — no  more.  ' 

It  was  years  and  years  before  any  one  beyond  ourselves 
knew   what   a  near   escape    our   little  ^Maud  had    bad    of 
becoming  Viscountess  Ravenel — future  Countess  of  Lux-        i 
more.  1 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

It  Avas  not  many  weeks  after  this  departure  of  Lord 
Ravenel's — the  pain  of  which  was  almost  forgotten  in  the 
comfort  of  Guy's  first  long  home  letter,  which  came  about 
this  time — that  John  one  morning,  suddenly  dropping  his 
newspaper,  exclaimed, 

"  Lord  Luxmore  is  dead." 

Yes,  he  had  returned  to  his  dust,  this  old  bad  man  ;  so 
old,  that  people  had  begun  to  think  he  would  never  die. 
He  was  gone  ;  the  man  who,  if  we  owned  an  enemy  in  the 
world,  had  certainly  jjroved  himself  that  enemy.  Some- 
thing jieculiar  is  there  in  a  decease  like  this — of  one  whom 
living,  we  have  always  felt  ourselves  justified  in  condemn- 
ing, avoiding — joerhaps  hating.  Until  death  stepping  in 
between,  removes  him  to  another  tribunal  than  this  petty 
justice  of  ours,  and  laying  a  solemn  finger  \\y>o\\  our 
mouths,  forbids  us  either  to  think  or  utter  a  word  of  hatred 
against  that  which  is  now — what  ? — a  disembodied  spirit — 
a  handful  of  corrupting  clay. 

Lord  Luxmore  was  dead.  He  had  gone  to  his  account ; 
it  was  not  ours  to  judge  him.  We  never  knew — I  believe 
no  one  except  his  son  ever  fully  knew — the  history  of  his 
death-bed. 

John  sat  in  silence,  the  paper  before  him,  long  after  we 
had  passed  the  news  and  discussed  it,  not  witliout  awe,  all 
round  the  breakfast  table. 

Maud  stole  up — hesitatingly,  and  asked  to  see  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  Earl's  decease. 

"  No,  my  child  ;  but  you  shall  hear  it  read  aloud,  if  you 
choose." 

I  guessed  the  reason  of  his  refusal  ;  when  looking  over 
him  as  he  read,  I  saw,  after  the  long  list  of  titles  owned  by 

490 


JOHN-   HALIFAX.  49\ 

the  new  Earl  of  Luxmore  one  hitter  line  ;  liow  it  must 
have  cut  to  the  heart  of  him  wliom  we  first  heard  of  as 
"jwor  AVilliam  !  " 

"  Had  like  wiseissns,  Caroline, married  in  17 — ,  to  Richard 
Britliwood,  Eftquire,  afterwards  divorced." 

And  by  a  curious  coincidence,  aljout  twenty  lines  further 
down  I  read  among  the  fashionable  marriages — 

"At  the  Britiidi  Embassy,  Paris,  Sir  Gerard  Ver- 
milye,  Bart.,  to  the  youtliful  andheautifuldavghter  of " 

I  forget  Avho.  T  only  saw  that  the  name  was  not  her 
name,  of  whom  the  ''youthful  and  beautiful  "  l)ride  had 
most  likely  never  heard.  He  had  not  married  Lady  Caro- 
line. 

This  morning's  intelligence  brought  the  Luxmore  family 
so  much  to  our  thoughts,  that  driving  out  after  breakfast, 
John  and  I  involuntarily  recurred  to  the  subject.  Nay, 
talking  on,  in  the  solitude  of  our  front  seat- — for  Mrs. 
Halifax,  Miss  Halifax,  and  Mrs.  Edwin  Halifax,  in  the  car- 
riage behind,  were  deep  in  some  other  subject — we  fell 
upon  a  topic  which  by  tacit  consent  had  been  laid  aside,  as 
in  our  household  we  held  it  good  to  lay  aside,  any  inevita- 
ble regret. 

"  Poor  Maud  !  how  eager  she  was  to  hear  the  news  to- 
day. She  little  thinks  how  vitally  it  might  have  concerned 
her.'^ 

"  No,"  John  answered  thoughtfully  ;  then  asked  me  with 
some  abruptness  :  "  Why  did  you  say  poor  Maud  ?'  " 

I  really  could  not  tell ;  it  was  a  mere  accident,  the  un- 
witting indication  of  some  crotchets  of  mine,  which  had 
often  come  into  my  mind  lately.  Crotchets,  perhaps  pecu- 
liar to  one,  who,  never  having  known  a  certain  possession, 
found  himself  rather  prone  to  over-rate  its  value.  But  it 
sometimes  struck  me  as  hard,  considering  how  little  honest 
and  sincere  love  there  is  in  the  world,  that  Maud  should 
never  have  known  of  Lord  Eavenel's. 

Possibly,  against  my  will,  my  answer  implied  something 
of  this  ;  for  John  Avas  a  long  time  silent.  Then  he  began 
to  talk  of  various  matters  ;  telling  me  of  many  improve- 
ments he  was  planning  and  executing  on  his  property,  and 


493  JOHN"    HALIFAX. 

among  his  people.  In  all  his  plans,  and  in  the  carrying  out 
of  them,  I  noticed  one  peculiarity,  strong  in  him  through- 
out his  life,  but  latterly  grown  stronger  than  ever — namely, 
that  whatever  he  found  to  do,  he  did  immediately.  Pro- 
crastination had  never  been  one  of  his  faults  ;  now,  he 
seemed  to  have  a  horror  of  putting  anything  off  even  for  a 
single  hour.  Nothing  that  could  be  done,  did  he  lay  aside 
until  it  was  done  ;  his  business  affairs  were  kept  in  perfect 
order  ;  each  day's  work  being  completed  with  the  day.  And 
in  the  thousand-and-one  little  things  that  were  constantly 
arising,  from  his  position  as  magistrate  and  landowner,  and 
his  general  interest  in  the  movements  of  the  time,  the  same 
system  was  invariably  pursued.  In  his  relations  Avith  the 
world  outside,  as  in  his  own  little  valley,  he  seemed  deter- 
mined to  "work  while  it  was  day,'"  If  he  could  possibly 
avoid  it,  no  application  was  ever  unattended  to  ;  no  duty 
left  unfinished  ;  no  good  unacknowledged  ;  no  evil  unreme- 
died, or  at  least  unforgiven. 

"John,"  I  said,  as  to-day  this  peculiarity  of  his  struck 
me  more  than  usual ;  "  thou  art  certainly  one  of  the  faith- 
ful servants  whom  the  Master  when  He  cometh  will  find 
watching." 

"  I  hope  so.  It  ought  to  be  thus  with  all  men — but  espe- 
cially with  me." 

I  imagined,  from  his  tone,  that  he  was  thinking  of  his 
responsibility  as  father,  master,  owner  of  large  wealth. 
How  could  I  know — how  could  I  guess — beyond  this  ! 

"Do  you  think  she  looks  pale,  Phineas  ?"  he  asked  sud- 
denly. 

Who — your  wife  ?  " 

No,  Maud.     My  little  Maud." 

It  was  but  lately  that  he  called  her  "his"  little  Maud  ; 
since  with  that  extreme  tenacity  of  attachment  which  was 
a  part  of  his  nature — refusing  to  put  any  one  love  in  another 
love's  place — his  second  daughter  had  never  been  to  him 
like  the  first.  Now,  however,  I  had  noticed  that  he  took 
Maud  nearer  to  his  heart,  made  her  more  often  his  compan- 
ion, watching  her  with  a  sedulous  tenderness — it  was  easy 
to  guess  why. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  493 

"  She  may  have  looked  a  little  paler  of  late,  a  little  more 
thoughtful.     But  1  am  sure  she  is  not  unhappy." 

"  I  believe  not— thank  God  !" 

"Surely/' I  said  anxiously,  "^^you  have  never  repented 
what  you  did  about  Lord  Ravenel  ?  " 

"  No — not  once.  It  cost  me  so  much,  that  I  know  it  was 
right  to  be  done." 

''But  if  things  had  been  otherwise — if  you  had  not  been 
so  sure  of  Maud's  feelings — " 

He  started  painfully  ;  then  answered — "  I  think  I  should 
have  done  it  still." 

I  was  silent.  The  paramount  right,  the  high  prerogative 
of  love,  which  he  held  as  strongly  as  I  did,  seemed  attacked 
in  its  liberty  divine.  For  the  moment,  it  was  as  if  he  too 
had  in  his  middle-age  gone  over  to  the  cold-blooded  ranks 
of  harsh  parental  prudence,  despotic  paternal  rule  ;  as  if 
Ursula  March's  lover  and  Maud's  father  were  two  distinct 
beings.     One  finds  it  so,  often  enough,  with  men. 

''John,"  I  said,  "could  you  have  done  it?  could  you 
have  broken  the  child's  lieart  ?" 

"Yes,  if  it  were  to  save  her  peace — perhaps  her  soul,  I 
could  have  broken  my  child's  heart." 

He  spoke  solemnly,  with  an  accent  of  inexpressible  pain, 
as  if  this  were  not  the  first  time  by  many  that  he  had  pon- 
dered over  such  a  possibility. 

"I  wish,  Phineas,  to  make  clear  to  you,  in  case  of — of 
any  future  misconceptions — my  mind  on  this  matter.  One 
right  alone  I  hold  superior  to  the  right  of  love — duty.  It 
is  a  father's  duty,  at  all  risks,  at  all  costs,  to  save  his  child 
from  anything  which  he  believes  would  peril  her  duty— so 
long  as  she  is  too  young  to  understand  fully  how  beyond  the 
claim  of  any  human  being,  be  it  father  or  lover,  is  God's 
claim  to  herself  and  her  immortal  soul.  Anything  which 
would  endanger  that  should  be  cut  off — though  it  be  the 
right  hand — the  right  eye.  But,  thank  God,  it  was  not 
thus  with  my  little  Maud." 

"  Nor  with  him  either.  He  bore  his  disappointment 
well." 

"Nobly.     It  may   make  a  true  nobleman  of  him  yet. 


494  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

But,  being  what  he  is,  and  for  as  long  as  he  remains  so, 
he  must  not  be  trusted  with  my  little  Maud.  I  must  take 
care  of  her  while  I  live  :  afterwards — " 

His  smile  faded,  or  rather  was  transmuted  into  that  grave 
thoughtfulness  which  I  had  lately  noticed  in  him,  when, 
as  now,  he  fell  into  one  of  his  long  silences.  There  was 
nothing  sad  about  it  ;  rather  a  serenity  which  reminded 
me  of  that  sweet  look  of  his  boyhood,  which  had  vanished 
during  the  manifold  cares  of  his  middle  life.  The  ex- 
pression of  the  mouth,  as  I  saw  it  in  profde— close  and 
calm — almost  inclined  me  to  go  back  to  the  fanciful  follies 
of  our  yonth,  and  call  him  "  David." 

We  drove  through  Xorton  Bury,  and  left  Mrs.  Edwin 
there.  Then  on,  along  the  familiar  road,  towards  the 
Manor-house  :  past  the  white  gate,  within  sight  of  little 
Longfield. 

"It  looks  just  the  same — the  tenant  takes  good  care  of 
it."     And  John's  eyes  turned  fondly  to  his  old  home. 

"Ay,  just  the  same.  Do  you  know  your  wife  was  saying 
to  me  this  morning,  that  when  Guy  comes  back,  when  all 
the  yovmg  folk  are  married,  and  you  retire  from  business 
and  settle  into  the  otiuni  cum  dignitate,  the  learned  leisure 
you  used  to  plan — she  would  like  to  give  up  Beech  wood  ? 
She  said,  she  hopes  you  and  she  will  end  your  days  together 
at  little  Lon2;field." 

"  Did  she  ?  Yes,  I  know  that  has  been  always  her 
dream." 

"  Scarcely  a  dream,  or  one  that  is  not  unlikely  to  be 
fulfilled.  I  like  to  fancy  you  both  two  old  people,  sitting 
on  either  side  the  fire — or  on  the  same  side,  if  you  like  it 
best ;  very  cheerful — you  will  make  such  a  merry  old  man, 
John,  with  all  your  children  round  you,  and  indefinite 
grandchildren  about  the  house  continually.  Or  else  you 
two  will  sit  alone  together,  just  as  in  your  early  married 
days — you  and  your  old  wife — the  dearest  and  handsomest 
old  lady  that  ever  was  seen." 

"  Phineas — don't — don't ! "  I  was  startled  by  the  tone  in 
which  he  answered  the  lightness  of  mine.  "  I  mean — 
don't  be  planning  out  the  future.     It  is  foolish — it  is  almost 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  495 

wrong.  God's  will  is  not  as  our  will ;  and  He  knows 
best." 

I  would  have  spoken  ;  but  just  then  we  reached  the 
Manor-house  gate,  and  plunged  at  once  into  present  life, 
and  into  the  hospitable  circle  of  the  Oldtowers. 

They  were  all  in  the  excitement  of  a  wonderful  piece  of 
gossip  :  gossip  so  strange,  sudden,  and  unprecedented,  that 
it  absorbed  all  lesser  matters.  It  burst  out  before  Ave  had 
been  in  the  house  five  minutes. 

"  Have  you  heard  this  extraordinary  report  about  the 
Luxmore  family  ?" 

I  could  see  Maud  turn  with  eager  attention — fixing  her 
eyes  wistfully  on  Lady  Oldtower. 

"  About  the  earl's  death  ?  Yes,  we  saw  it  in  the  news- 
paper." And  John  passed  on  to  some  other  point  of  con- 
versation.    In  vain. 

"  This  news  relates  to  the  present  earl.  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing — never.  In  fact,  if  true,  his  conduct  is 
something  which  in  its  self-denial  approaches  absolute  in- 
sanity. Is  it  possible  that,  being  so  great  a  friend  of  your 
family,  he  has  not  informed  you  of  the  circumstances  ?" 

These  circumstances,  with  some  patience,  we  extracted 
from  the  voluble  Lady  Oldtower.  She  had  learnt  them — 
I  forget  how  :  but  ill  news  never  wants  a  tongue  to  carry  it. 

It  seemed  that  on  the  earl's  death  it  was  discovered, 
what  had  already  been  long  suspected,  that  his  liabilities, 
like  his  extravagances,  were  enormous.  That  he  was 
obliged  to  live  abroad,  to  escape  in  some  degree  the  clam- 
orous haunting  of  the  hundreds  he  had  ruined  :  poor 
tradespeople,  who  knew  that  their  only  chance  of  pa3nnent 
was  during  the  old  man's  lifetime,  for  his  whole  property 
was  entailed  on  the  son. 

Whether  Lord  Eavenel  had  ever  been  acquainted  with 
this  state  of  things,  or  whether,  being  in  ignorance  of  it, 
his  own  style  of  living  had  in  a  degree  imitated  his  father's, 
rumor  did  not  say,  nor  indeed  was  it  of  much  consequence. 
The  facts  subsequently  becoming  known  immediately  after 
Lord  Luxmore's  death,  made  all  former  conjectures  un- 
necessary. 


496  JOHX    HALIFAX. 

Not  a  week  before  he  died,  tlie  late  earl  and  his  son-* 
chiefly  it  was  believed  on  the  latter's  instigation — had  cut 
off  the  entail,  thereby  making  the  whole  property  saleable, 
and  available  for  the  payment  of  creditors.  Thus  by  his 
own  act,  and — as  some  one  had  told  somebody  that  some- 
body else  had  heard  Lord  Ravenel  say — "for  the  honor  of 
the  family,"  the  present  earl  had  succeeded  to  an  empty 
title,  and — beggary. 

"  Or,"  Lady  Oldtower  added,  "  what  to  a  man  of  rank 
will  be  the  same  as  beggary — a  paltry  two  hundred  a-year 
or  so — which  he  has  reserved,  they  say,  just  to  keep  him 
from  destitution.  Ah — here  comes  Mr.  Jessop  ;  I  thought 
he  would.     He  can  tell  us  all  about  it." 

Old  Mr.  Jessop  was  as  much  excited  as  any  one  pre- 
sent. 

''Ay — it's  all  true — only  too  true,  Mr.  Halifax.  He  was 
at  my  house  last  night." 

''Last  night!"  I  do  not  think  anybody  caught  the 
child's  exclamation  but  me  ;  I  could  not  help  watching 
little  Maud,  noticing  Avhat  strong  emotion,  still  perfectly 
child-like  and  unguarded  in  its  demonstration,  was  shak- 
ing her  innocent  bosom,  and  overflowing  at  her  eyes. 
However,  as  she  sat  still  in  the  corner,  nobody  observed 
her. 

"  Yes,  he  slept  at  my  house — Lord  Ravenel,  the  Earl  of 
Luxmore  I  mean.  Much  good  will  his  title  do  him  !  My 
head  clerk  is  better  off  than  he.  He  has  stripped  himself 
of  every  penny,  except — bless  me,  I  forgot  ; — Mr.  Halifax, 
he  gave  me  a  letter  for  you." 

John  walked  to  the  window,  to  read  it ;  but  having 
read  it,  passed  it  openly  round  the  circle  ;  as  indeed  was. 
best. 

"  My  dear  Friend, 
"  You  will  have  heard  that  my  father  is  no  more." 

("He  used  always  to  say  'the  Earl,'"  whispered  Maud, 
as  she  looked  over  my  shoulder. ) 

"I  write  this  merely  to  say,  what  I  feel  sure  you  will 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  49? 

already  have  believed — that  anything  which  you  may 
learn  concerning  a\s  affairs,  I  was  myself  unaware  of, 
except  in  a  very  slight  degree,  when  1  last  visited  Beech- 
wood. 

"Will  you  likewise  believe  that  in  all  I  have  done  or  in- 
tend doing,  your  interests  as  my  tenant — which  I  hope 
you  will  remain — have  been,  and  shall  be,  sedulously 
guarded  ? 

"  My  grateful  remembrance  to  all  your  household. 
"Faithfully  yours,  and  theirs, 

"LUXMOKE." 

"Give  me  back  the  letter,  Maud,  my  child." 

She  had  been  taking  possession  of  it,  as  in  right  of  being 
his  "pet"  she  generally  did  of  all  Lord  Ravenel's  letters. 
But  now,  without  a  word  of  objection,  she  surrendered  it 
to  her  father. 

"  What  does  he  mean,  Mr.  JessojD,  about  my  interests  as 
his  tenant  ?  " 

"  Bless  me — I  am  so  grieved  about  the  matter,  that 
everything  goes  astray  in  my  head.  He  wished  me  to 
explain  to  you,  that  he  has  reserved  one  portion  of  the 
Luxmore  property  intact — Enderley  mills.  The  rent  you 
pay  will,  he  says,  be  a  sufficient  income  for  him  ;  and  then 
while  your  lease  lasts  no  other  landlord  can  injure  you. 
Very  thoughtful  of  him — very  thoughtful  indeed,  Mr. 
Halifax." 

John  made  no  answer. 

"  I  never  saw  a  man  so  altered.  He  went  over  some 
matters  with  me— private  charities,  in  which  I  have  been 
his  agent,  you  know — grave,  clear-headed,  business-like  ; 
my  clerk  himself  could  not  have  done  better.  Afterwards 
we  sat  and  talked,  and  I  tried — foolishly  enough,  when 
the  thing  was  done  ! — to  show  him  what  a  frantic  act  it 
was  both  towards  himself  and  his  heirs.  But  he  could 
not  see  it.  He  said,  cutting  off  the  entail  would  harm 
nobody — for  that  he  did  not  intend  ever  to  marry.  Poor 
fellow  !" 

"  Is  he  with  you  still  ?"  John  asked,  in  a  low  tone. 
32 


498  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

"  No  ;  he  left  this  moruiiig  for  Paris  ;  liis  father  is  to  be 
buried  there.  Afterwards,  he  said,  his  movements  were 
quite  uncertain.  He  bade  me  good-bye — I — I  didn't  like 
it,  I  can  assure  you." 

And  the  old  man,  blowing  his  nose  with  his  yellow 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  twitching  his  features  into  all 
manner  of  shapes,  seemed  determined  to  put  aside  the 
melancholy  subject,  and  dilated  on  the  earl  and  his  affairs 
no  more. 

Nor  did  any  one.  Something  in  this  young  nobleman's 
noble  act — it  has  since  been  not  without  a  parallel  among 
our  aristocracy — silenced  the  tongue  of  gossip  itself.  The 
deed  was  so  new — so  unlike  anything  that  had  been  con- 
ceived possible,  especially  in  a  man  like  Lord  Ravenel,  who 
had  always  borne  the  character  of  a  harmless,  idle,  misan- 
thropic nonentity— that  society  was  really  nonplussed  con- 
cerning it.  Of  the  many  loquacious  visitors  who  came  that 
morning  to  pour  upon  Lady  Oldtower  all  the  curiosity  of 
Coltham — fashionable  Coltham,  famous  for  all  the  scandal 
of  hmit  /o«— there  was  none  who  did  not  speak  of  Lord 
Luxmore  and  his  affairs  with  an  uncomfortable,  wonder- 
ing awe.  Some  suggested  h'e  was  going  mad — others,  rak- 
ing up  stories  current  of  his  early  youth,  thought  he  liad 
turned  Catholic  again,  and  was  about  to  enter  a  monastery. 
One  or  two  honest  hearts  protested  that  he  was  a  noble 
fellow,  and  it  was  a  pity  he  had  determined  to  be  the  last 
of  the  Luxmores. 

For  ourselves— Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halifax,  Maud,  and  I — we 
never  spoke  to  one  another  on  the  subject  all  morning. 
Not  until  after  luncheon,  when  John  and  I  had  somehow 
stolen  out  of  the  way  of  the  visitors,  and  were  walking  to 
and  fro  in  the  garden.  The  sunny  fruit  garden — ancient, 
Dutch,  and  square — with  its  barricade  of  a  high  hedge,  a 
stone  wall,  and  between  it  and  the  house  a  shining  fence 
of  great  laurel  trees. 

Maud  appeared  suddenly  before  us  from  among  these 
laurels,  breathless. 

"I  got  away  after  you,  father.  I — I  wanted  to  find 
some  strawberries — and — I  wanted  to  speak  to  you." 


JOHK    HALIFAX.  499 

"Speak  on,  little  lady." 

He  linked  lier  arm  in  his,  and  she  paced  between  ns  up 
and  down  the  broad  walk— but  without  diverging  to  the 
strawberry  beds.  She  was  grave  and  paler  than  ordinary. 
Her  father  asked  if  she  were  tired? 

"  No,  but  my  head  aches.  Those  Coltham  people  do 
talk  so.  Father,  I  want  you  to  explain  to  me,  for  1  can't 
well  understand  it,  all  this  that  they  have  been  saying 
about  Lord  Ravenel." 

John  explained  as  simply  and  briefly  as  he  could. 

"I  understand.  Then,  though  he  is  Earl  of  Luxmore, 
he  is  quite  poor — poorer  than  any  of  us  ?  And  he  has 
made  himself  poor,  in  order  to  pay  his  own  and  his  father's 
debts,  and  keep  other  people  from  suffering  from  any 
fault  of  his?     Is  it  so?" 

"Yes,  my  child." 

"Is  it  not  a  very  noble  act,  father?" 

"  Very  noble." 

"I  think  it  is  the  noblest  act  I  ever  heard  of.  I  should 
like  to  tell  him  so.     When  is  he  coming  to  Beechwood  ?  " 

Maud  spoke  quickly,  with  flushed  cheeks,  in  the  impetu- 
ous manner  she  inherited  from  her  mother.  Her  question 
not  being  immediately  answered,  she  repeated  it  still  more 
eagerly. 

Her  father  replied — "  I  do  not  know." 

"  How  very  strange  !  I  thought  he  would  come  at  once 
— to-night,  probably." 

I  reminded  her  that  Lord  Ravenel .  had  left  for  Paris, 
bidding  good-bye  to  Mr.  Jessop. 

' '  He  ought  to  have  come  to  us  instead  of  to  Mr.  Jessop. 
Write  and  tell  him  so,  father.  Tell  him  how  glad  we  shall 
be  to  see  him.  And  perhaps  you  can  help  him  :  you  who 
help  everybody.     He  always  said  you  were  his  best  friend." 

"Did  he?" 

"Ah,  now,  do  write,  father  dear — I  am  sure  you  will," 

John  looked  down  on  the  little  maid  who  hung  on  his 
arm  so  persuasively,  then  looked  sorrowfully  away. 
"  My  child — I  cannot." 
"What,   not  write  to  him?     When  he  is   poor  and  in 


500  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

trouble?  That  is  not  like  yon,  father,"  and  Maud  half- 
loosed  her  arm. 

Her  father  quietly  put  the  little  rebellious  hand  back 
again  to  its  place.  He  was  evidently  debating  within  him- 
self whether  he  should  tell  her  the  whole  truth,  or  how 
much  of  it.  Not  that  the  debate  was  new,  for  he  must 
already  have  foreseen  this  possible,  nay,  certain,  conjunc- 
ture. Especially  as  all  his  dealings  with  his  family  had 
hitherto  been  open  as  daylight.  He  held  that  to  prevari- 
cate, or  wilfully  to  give  the  impression  of  a  falsehood,  is 
almost  as  mean  as  a  direct  lie.  When  anything  occurred 
that  he  could  not  tell  his  children,  he  always  said  plainly, 
"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  and  they  asked  no  more. 

I  wondered  exceedingly  how  he  would  deal  with  Maud. 

She  walked  with  him,  submissive  yet  not  satisfied,  glanc- 
ing at  him  from  time  to  time,  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 
At  last  she  could  wait -no  longer. 

"  I  am  sure  there  is  something  wrong.  You  do  not  care 
for  Lord  Eavenel  as  much  as  you  used  to  do." 

"More,  if  possible." 

"  Then  write  to  him.  Say,  we  want  to  see  him — I  want 
to  see  him.  Ask  him  to  come  and  stay  a  long  while  at 
Beechwood." 

"  I  cannot,  Maud.  It  would  be  impossible  for  him  to 
come.  I  do  not  think  he  is  likely  to  visit  Beechwood  for 
some  time." 

"  How  long  ?     Six  months  ?     A  year,  perhaps  ?" 

"  It  may  be  several  years." 

"  Then,  I  was  right.  Something  has  happened  ;  you 
are  not  friends  with  him  any  longer.  And  he  is  poor — in 
trouble — oh,  father  ! " 

She  snatched  her  hand  away,  and  flashed  upon  him  re- 
proachful eyes.  John  took  her  gently  by  the  arm,  and 
made  her  sit  down  upon  the  wall  of  a  little  stone  bridge, 
under  which  the  moat  slipped  with  a  quiet  murmur. 
Maud's  tears  dropped  into  it  fast  and  free. 

That  very  outburst,  brief  and  thundery  as  a  child's  pas- 
sion, gave  consolation  both  to  her  father  and  me.  When 
it  lessened,  John  spoke. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  501 

"  Now  has  my  little  Maud  ceased  to  be  angry  with  hei 
father  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  angry — only  I  was  so  startled — so 
grieved.     Tell  me  what  has  happened,  please,  father  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you — so  far  as  I  can.  Lord  Kavenel  and  my- 
self had  some  conversation,  of  a  very  painful  kind,  the 
last  night  he  was  with  us.  After  it,  we  both  considered  it 
advisable  he  should  not  visit  us  again  for  the  present." 

"  Why  not  ?  Had  you  quarrelled  ?  or  if  you  had,  I 
thought  my  father  was  always  the  first  to  forgive  every- 
body." 

*'N"o,  Maud,  we  had  not  quarrelled.'* 

''Then,  what  was  it  ?" 

"  My  child,  you  must  not  ask,  for  indeed  I  cannot  tell 
you." 

Maud  sprang  up — the  rebellious  spirit  flashing  out  again. 
"  Not  tell  me — me,  his  pet — me,  that  cared  for  him 
more  than  any  of  you  did.  I  think  you  ought  to  tell  me, 
father." 

"  You  must  allow  me  to  decide  that,  if  you  please." 

After  this  answer  Maud  paused,  and  said  humbly,  '^  Does 
any  one  else  know  ?  " 

"  Your  mother,  and  your  uncle  Phineas,  who  happened 
to  be  present  at  the  time.  No  one  else :  and  no  one  else 
shall  know." 

John  spoke  with  that  slight  quivering  and  blueness  of 
the  lips  which  any  mental  excitement  usuall}^  produced  in 
him.  He  sat  down  by  his  daughters  side  and  took  her 
hand. 

"  I  knew  this  woukl  grieve  you,  and  I  kept  it  from  you 
as  long  as  I  could.  Now  you  must  only  be  patient,  and 
like  a  good  child  trust  your  father." 

Something  in  his  manner  quieted  her.  She  only  sighed, 
and  said,  '*'  She  could  not  understand  it." 

"Neither  can  I — oftentimes,  my  poor  little  Maud. 
There  are  so  many  sad  things  in  life  that  we  have  to  take 
upon  trust,  and  bear,  and  be  patient  with — yet  neyei 
understand.     I  suppose  we  shall  some  day." 

His  eyes  wandered  upward  to  the  wide-arched  blue  sky, 


503  JOHN^    HALIFAX. 

w^hich  in  its  calm  beauty  makes  us  fancy  that  Paradise  is 
fcherCj  even  though  we  know  that  "  tlie.  hingdom  of  Heaven 
is  within  us,''  and  that  the  kingdom  of  spirits  may  be 
around  us  and  about  us^  everywhere. 

Maud  looked  at  her  father^,  and  crept  closer  to  him — 
into  his  arms. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  naughty.  I  will  try  not  to  mind 
losing  him.  But  I  liked  Lord  Ravenel  so  much — and  he 
was  so  fond  of  me. " 

"  Child  "' — and  her  father  himself  could  not  help  smiling 
at  the  simplicity  of  her  speech — "  it  is  often  easiest  to  lose 
those  we  are  fond  of  and  who  are  fond  of  us,  because  in 
one  sense  we  never  can  really  lose  them.  Nothing  in  this 
world,  nor,  I  believe,  in  any  other,  can  part  those  who 
truly  and  faithfully  love." 

I  tliink  he  was  hardly  aware  how  much  he  was  implying, 
at  least  not  in  its  relation  to  her,  or  else  he  would  not  have 
said  it.  And  he  Avould  surely  have  noticed,  as  I  did,  that 
the  word  "love"  which  had  not  been  mentioned  before — it 
was  "liking,"  "  fond  of,"  "care  for,"  or  some  such  round- 
about childish  phrase — the  Avord  "love,"  made  Maud  start- 
She  darted  from  one  to  the  other  of  us  a  keen  glance  of 
inquiry,  and  then  turned  the  color  of  a  July  rose. 

Iler  attitude,  her  blushes,  the  shy  trembling  about  her 
mouth,  reminded  me  vividly,  too  vividly,  of  her  mother 
twenty-eight  years  ago. 

Alarmed,  I  tried  to  hasten  the  end  of  our  conversation, 
lest,  voluntarily  or  involuntarily,  it  might  produce  the  very 
results  which,  though  they  might  not  have  altered  John's 
determination,  would  have  almost  broken  his  heart. 

So,  begging  her  to  ''kiss  and  make  friends,"  which  Maud 
did,  timidly,  and  without  attempting  further  questions,  I 
hurried  the  father  and  daughter  into  the  house  ;  deferring 
for  mature  consideration,  the  question,  whether  or  not  I 
should  trouble  John  with  any  too-anxious  doubts  of  mine 
concerning  her. 

As  we  drove  back  through  Norton  Bury,  I  saw  that  while 
her  mother  and  Lady  Oldtowor  conversed,  Maud  sat  op- 
posite rather  more  silent  than  her  wont ;  but  when  the 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  503 

ladies  dismounted  for  shopping,  she  was  again  the  livelj/ 
independent  Miss  Halifax, 

"  standing  with  reluctant  feet, 


Where  womanhood  and  childhood  meet," 

and  assuming  at  once  the  jirerogatives  and  immunities  of 
both. 

Her  girlish  ladyship  at  last  got  tired  of  silks  and  ribbons, 
and  stood  with  me  at  the  shop-door,  amusing  herself  with 
commenting  on  the  passers-by. 

These  were  not  so  plentiful  as  I  once  remembered, 
though  still  the  old  town  wore  its  old  face — appearing 
fairer  than  ever,  as  I  myself  grew  older.  I'he  same  Colt- 
ham  coach  stopped  at  the  Lamb  Inn.  and  the  same  group  of 
idle  loungers  took  an  interest  in  its  disemboguing  of  its 
contents.  But  railways  had  done  an  ill  turn  to  the  coach 
and  to  poor  Norton  Bury  :  where  there  used  to  be  six  inside 
passengers,  to-day  was  turned  out  only  one. 

"  What  a  queer-looking  little  woman  I  Uncle  Phineas, 
people  shouldn't  dress  so  fine  as  that  when  they  are  old." 

^Maud's  criticism  was  scarcely  just.  The  light-colored, 
flimsy  gown,  shorter  than  even  Coltham  fashionables  Avould 
have  esteemed  decent,  the  fluttering  bonnet,  the  abundance 
of  flaunting  curls — no  wonder  that  the  stranger  attracted 
considerable  notice  in  quiet  Norton  Bury.  As  she  tripped 
mincingly  along,  in  her  silk  stockings  and  light  shoes,  a 
smothered  jeer  arose. 

"  People  should  not  laugh  at  an  old  woman,  however 
conceited  she  may  be,"  said  Maud,  indignantly. 

"  Is  she  old  ?  " 

"  Just  look." 

And  surely  when,  as  she  turned  from  side  to  side,  I 
caiTght  her  full  face — what  a  face  it  was  !  withered,  thin, 
sallow  almost  to  deathliness,  Avith  a  bright  rouge-spot  on 
each  cheek,  a  broad  smile  on  the  ghastly  mouth. 

"  Is  she  crazy.  Uncle  Phineas  ?" 

"  Possibly.  Do  not  look  at  her."  For  I  was  sure  this 
must  be  the  wreck  of  such  a  life  as  womanhood  does  some- 


504  JOHIf   HALIFAX. 

times  sink  to — a  life,  the  mere  knowledge  of  which  had 
never  yet  entered  Maud's  pure  world. 

She  seemed  surprised,  but  obeyed  me  and  went  in.  I 
stood  at  the  shop-door,  watching  the  increasing  crowd,  and 
pitying,  with  that  pity  mixed  with  shame  that  every  honest 
man  must  feel  towards  a  degraded  woman,  the  wretched 
object  of  their  jeers.  Half -frightened,  she  still  kept  up 
that  set  smile,  skipping  daintily  from  side  to  side  of  the 
pavement,  darting  at  and  peering  into  every  carriage  that 
passed.  Miserable  creature  as  she  looked,  there  was  a 
certain  grace  and  ease  in  her  movements,  as  if  she  had 
fallen  from  some  far  higher  estate. 

At  the  moment,  the  Mythe  carriage,  with  Mr.  Brith- 
wood  in  it,  dozing  his  daily  drive  away,  his  gouty  foot 
propped  up  before  him — slowly  lumbered  up  the  street. 
The  woman  made  a  dart  at  it.  but  was  held  back. 

"  Canaille  !  I  always  hated  your  Norton  Bury  !  Call 
my  carriage.     I  will  go  home." 

Through  its  coarse  discordance,  its  insane  rage,  I  thought 
I  knew  the  voice.  Especially  when,  assuming  a  tone  of 
command,  she  addressed  the  old  coachman  : 

"  Draw  up,  Peter  ;  you  are  very  late.  People,  give  way  ! 
Don't  you  see  my  carriage  ?  " 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter,  so  loud  that  even  Mr. 
Brithwood  opened  his  dull,  drunken  eyes,  and  stared  about 
him. 

"  Canaille  \" — and  the  scream  was  more  of  terror  than 
anger,  as  she  almost  flung  herself  under  the  horses'  heads 
in  her  eagerness  to  escape  from  the  mob.  "  Let  me  go  ! 
My  carriage  is  waiting.     I  am  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood  ! " 

The  'squire  heard  her.  For  a  single  instant  they  gazed 
at  one  another — besotted  husband,  dishonored,  divorced 
wife — gazed  with  horror  and  fear,  as  two  sinners  who  had 
been  each's  other's  undoing,  might  meet  in  the  poetic  tor- 
ments of  Dante's  "  Inferno,"  or  the  tangible  fire  and  brim- 
stone of  many  a  blind  but  honest  Christian's  hell.  One 
single  instant, — and  then  Eichard  Brithwood  made  up  his 
mind. 

"  Coachman,  drive  on  ! " 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  505 

But  the  man — he  was  an  old  man — seemed  to  hesitate  at 
urgmg  his  horses  right  over  "my  lady."  He  even  looked 
down  on  her  with  a  sort  of  compassion — I  remembered 
having  heard  say  that  she  was  always  kind  and  affable  to 
her  servants. 

"  Drive  on,  you  fool  !  Here" — and  Mr.  Brithwood 
threw  some  coin  amongst  the  molj — "  Fetch  the  constable 
— some  of  you  ;  take  the  woman  to  the  watch-house  !  " 

And  the  carriage  rolled  on,  leaving  her  tliere,  crouched 
on  the  kerbstone,  gazing  after  it  with  something  between  a 
laugh  and  a  moan. 

Nobody  touched  her.  Perhaps  some  had  heard  of  lier  ; 
a  few  might  even  have  seen  her — driving  through  Norton 
Bury  in  her  pristine  state,  as-the  young  'squire's  handsome 
wife — the  charming  Lady  Caroline. 

I  was  so  absorbed  in  the  sickening  siglit,  that  I  did 
not  perceive  how  John  and  Ursula,  standing  beliind  me, 
had  seen  it  likewise — evidently  seen  and  understood  it 
all. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  she  whispered  to  him. 

"What  ought  we  to  do  ?" 

Here  Maud  came  running  out  to  see  what  was  amiss  in 
the  street. 

"Go  in,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax  sharply.  "Stay  till 
I  fetch  you." 

Lady  Oldtower  also  advanced  to  the  door  ;  but  catching 
some  notion  of  what  tlie  disturbance  was,  shocked  and 
scandalized,  retired  into  the  shop  again, 

John  looked  earnestly  at  his  wife,  but  for  once  slie  did 
not  or  would  not  understand  his  meaning  ;  she  drew  back 
uneasily. 

"What  must  be  done  ? — I  mean,  what  do  you  want  me 
to  do?" 

"  What  only  a  woman  can  do — a  woman  like  you,  and 
in  your  position." 

"Yes,  if  it  were  only  myself.  But  think  of  the  house- 
hold— think  of  Maud.  People  will  talk  so.  It  is  hard  to 
know  how  to  act." 

"  Nay  ;  how  did  One  act — how  Avould  He  act  now,  if  He 


606  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

stood  in  the  street  this  da}^  ?  If  we  take  care  of  aught  of 
His,  will  He  not  take  care  of  us  and  of  our  children  ?  " 

Mrs.  Halifax  paused,  thought  a  moment,  hesitated — 
yielded. 

"  John,  you  are  right ;  you  are  always  right.  I  will  do 
anything  you  please." 

And  then  I  saw,  through  the  astonished  crowd,  in  face  of 
scores  of  window-gazers,  all  of  whom  knew  them,  and  a 
great  number  of  whom  they  also  knew,  Mr.  Halifax  and 
his  wife  walk  up  to  where  the  miserable  woman  lay. 

John  touched  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder — she  screamed 
and  cowered  down. 

"Are  you  the  constable  ?  He  said  he  Avould  send  the 
constable." 

"Hush! — do  not  be  afraid.     Cousin — Cousin  Caroline." 

God  knows  how  long  it  was  since  any  woman  had  sjDoken 
to  her  in  that  tone.  It  seemed  to  startle  back  her  shattered 
wits.     She  rose  to  her  feet,  smiling  airily. 

"  Madame,  you  are  very  kind.  I  believe  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  somewhere.     You  name  is " 

"Ursula  Halifax.  Do  you  remember?" — speaking 
gently,  as  she  would  have  done  to  a  child. 

Lady  Caroline  bowed — a  ghastly  mockery  of  her  former 
sprightly  grace.  "  Not  exactly  ;  but  I  dare  say  I  shall 
presently — an  revoir,  madame  !" 

She  was  going  away,  kissing  her  hand — that  yellow, 
wrinkled,  old  woman's  hand — but  John  stopped  her. 

"  My  wife  wants  to  speak  to  you.  Lady  Caroline.  She 
wishes  you  to  come  home  with  us." 

"  Platt-ilf — oh  yes  ;  I  understand.  I  shall  be  happy — 
most  happy." 

John  offered  her  his  arm  with  an  air  of  grave  deference  ; 
Mrs.  Halifax  supported  her  on  the  other  side.  Without 
more  ado,  they  put  her  in  the  carriage  and  drove  home, 
leaving  Maud  in  my  charge,  and  leaving  astounded  Norton 
B.ury  to  think  and  say — exactly  what  it  pleased. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

For  nearly  three  years  Lady  Caroline  lived  in  our  house 
— if  that  miserable  existence  of  hers  could  be  called  living 
— bed-ridden,  fallen  into  second  childhood  : 

"  Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw ; " 

oblivious  to  both  past  and  present,  recognizing  none  of  us, 
and  taking  no  notice  of  anybody,  except  now  and  then  of 
Edwin's  little  daughter,  baby  Louise. 

We  knew  that  all  our  neighbors  talked  us  over,  making 
far  more  than  a  nine  days'  wonder  of  the  ''very  extraordi- 
nary conduct"  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halifax.  That  even  good 
Lady  Oldtower  hesitated  a  little  before  she  suffered  her  tribe 
of  fair  daughters  to  visit  under  the  same  roof  where  lay, 
quite  out  of  the  way.  that  poor  wreck  of  womanhood,  which 
would  hardly  have  tainted  any  woman  now.  But  in  pro- 
cess of  time  the  gossip  ceased  of  itself ;  and  when,  one 
summer  day,  a  small  decent  funeral  moved  out  of  our  gar- 
den gate  to  Enderley  churchyard,  all  the  comment  was — 

"Oh!  is  she  dead? — AVhat  a  relief  it  must  be  !  How 
very  kind  of  Mr.   and  Mrs.  Halifax  I '' 

Yes,  she  was  dead,  and  had  "  made  no  sign,"  either  of 
repentance,  grief,  or  gratitude.  Unless  one  could  consider 
as  such  a  moment's  lightening  before  death,  which  Maud 
declared  she  saw  in  her — Maud,  who  had  tended  her  with  a 
devotedness  which  neither  father  nor  mother  forbade,  be- 
lieving that  a  woman  cannot  too  soon  learn  womanhood's 
best  "  mission  " — usefulness,  tenderness,  and  charitv.  Miss 
Halifax  was  certain  that  a  few  minutes  before  the  last  min- 
ute, she  saw  a  gleam  of  sense  in  the  filmy  eyes,  and  stoop- 
ing down,  had  caught  some  feeble  murmur  about  *"  William 
— poor  William  !  " 

507 


508  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

She  did  not  tell  me  this  ;  she  spoke  of  it  to  no  one  bu; 
her  mother,  and  to  her  briefly.  So  the  wretched  life,  once 
beautiful  and  loveful,  was  now  ended,  or  perhaps  borne  into 
some  new  sphere  to  begin  again  its  struggle  after  the  high- 
est beauty,  the  only  perfect  love.  What  are  we  that  we 
should  place  limits  to  the  infinite  mercy  of  the  Lord  and 
Giver  of  Life,  unto  whom  all  life  returns  ? 

We  buried  her  and  left  her  ; — poor  Lady  Caroline  ! 

No  one  interfered  with  us,  and  we  appealed  to  no  one. 
In  truth,  there  was  no  one  unto  whom  we  could  appeal. 
Lord  Jjuxmore,  immediately  after  his  father's  funeral,  had 
disappeared,  whither,  no  one  knew  except  his  solicitor  ; 
who  treated  with  and  entirely  satisfied  the  host  of  creditors, 
and  into  whose  hands  the  sole  debtor,  John  Halifax,  paid 
his  yearly  rent.  Therewith,  he  wrote  several  times  to  Lord 
Luxmore  ;  but  the  letters  were  simply  acknowledged  through 
tlie  lawyer  :  never  answered.  Whether  in  any  of  them  John 
alluded  to  Lady  Caroline,  I  do  not  know  ;  but  I  rather  think 
not,  as  it  would  have  served  no  purpose  and  only  inflicted 
pain.  No  doubt,  her  brother  had  long  since  believed  her 
dead,  as  we  and  the  world  had  done. 

Lithat  same  world,  one  man,  even  a  nobleman,  is  of  little 
account.  Lord  Ravenel  sank  in  its  wide  waste  of  waters, 
and  they  closed  over  him.  Whether  he  were  drowned  or 
saved,  was  of  small  moment  to  any  one.  He  was  soon  for- 
gotten,— everywhere  except  at  Beechwood  ;  and  sometimes 
it  seemed  as  if  he  were  even  forgotten  there.  Save  that  in 
our  family  we  found  it  hard  to  learn  this  easy,  convenient 
habit — to  forget. 

Hard,  though  seven  years  had  passed  since  we  saw  Guy's 
merry  face,  to  avoid  missing  it  keenly  still.  The  mother,  as 
her  years  crejDt  on,  oftentimes  wearied  for  him  with  a  yearn- 
ing that  could  not  be  told.  The  father,  as  Edwin  became 
engrossed  in  his  own  affairs,  and  Walter's  undecided  tem- 
perament kept  him  a  boy  long  after  boyhood,  often  seemed 
to  look  round  vaguely  for  an  eldest  son's  young  strength 
to  lean  upon  ;  often  said  anxiously,  '^'^I  wish  Guy  were  at 
home." 

Yet  still  there  was  no  hint  of  his  coming  ;  better  he  never 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  509 

came  at  all  than  came  against  his  will,  or  came  to  meet  the 
least  pain,  the  shadow  of  disgrace.  And  he  was  contented 
and  prosperous  in  the  western  world,  leading  an  active  and 
useful  life,  earning  an  honorable  name.  He  had  taken  a 
partner,  he  told  us  :  there  was  real  friendship  between  them, 
and  they  were  doing  well  ;  perhaps  might  make  in  a  few 
years,  one  of  those  rapid  fortunes  wliicli  clever  men  of 
business  do  make  in  America,  and  did  especially  at  that 
time. 

He  was  also  eager  and  earnest  upon  other  and  higher 
cares  than  mere  business  ;  entered  warmly  into  his  father's 
sympathy  about  many  political  measures  now  occupying 
men's  minds.  A  great  number  of  comparative  facts  con- 
cerning the  factory  children  in  England  and  America  ;  a 
mass  of  evidence  used  by  Mr.  Fowell  Buxton  in  his  argu- 
ments for  the  abolition  of  slavery,  and  many  other  things, 
originated  in  the  impulsive  activity,  noAV  settled  into  ma- 
ture manly  energy,  of  Mr.  Guy  Halifax,  of  Boston,  U.S. — 
"  our  Guy.-" 

"  The  lad  is  making  a  stir  in  the  world,"  said  his  father 
one  day,  when  we  had  read  his  last  letter.  "  I  shall  not 
wonder  if,  when  he  comes  home,  a  deputation  from  his 
native  Norton  Bury  were  to  appear,  requesting  him  to 
accej)t  the  honor  of  representing  them  in  Parliament.  He 
would  suit  them — at  least,  as  regards  the  canvassing  and 
the  ladies — a  great  deal  better  than  his  old  father— eh, 
love  ?  " 

^Irs.  Halifax  smiled,  rather  unwillingly,  for  her  husband 
referred  to  a  subject  which  had  cost  her  some  pain  at  the 
time.  After  the  Reform  Bill  passed,  many  of  our  neigh- 
bors, who  had  long  desired  that  one  of  John^s  high  char- 
acter, practical  knowledge,  and  influence  in  the  town, 
should  be  its  M.P.,  and  were  aware  that  his  sole  objection 
to  entering  the  House  was  the  said  question  of  Reform, 
urged  him  very  earnestly  to  stand  for  Norton  Bury. 

To  everybody's  surprise,  and  none  more  than  our  own, 
he  refused. 

Publicly  he  assigned  no  reason  for  this,  except  his  con- 
Tietion  that  he  could  not  discharge  as  he  ought  and  as  h§ 


510  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

would  once  have  done,  duties  which  he  held  so  sacred  and 
indispensable.  His  letter,  brief  and  simple,  thanking  his 
"'good  neighbors,"  and  wishing  them  ''a  younger  and 
worthier"  member,  might  be  found  in  some  old  file  of  the 
Norton  Biifv" Herat d"still.  Even  the  Norton  Bury  "Mer- 
cury "  in  reprinting  it,  commented  on  its  touching  honesty 
and  brevity,  and— concluding  his  political  career  was  ended 
with  it, — condescended  to  bestow  on  Mr.  Halifax  the  usual 
obituary  line: — 

"  We  could  have  better  spared  a  better  man." 

When  his  family,  and  even  his  wife,  reasoned  with  him, 
knowing  that  to  enter  parliament  had  long  been  his  thought, 
nay,  his  desire,  and  perhaps  herself  taking  a  natural  pride 
in  the  idea  of  seeing  M.P. — M.P.  of  a  new  and  unbribed 
House  of  Commons — after  his  well-beloved  name  ; — to  us 
and  to  her  he  gave  no  clearer  motive  for  his  refusal  than  to 
the  electors  of  Norton  Bury. 

"  But  you  are  not  old,  John,"  I  argued  with  him  one  day, 
"you  possess  to  the  full  the  7ne7is  sana  in  corpore  sano. 
No  man  can  be  more  fitted  than  yourself  to  serve  his  coun- 
try, as  you  used  to  say  it  might  be  served,  and  you  yourself 
might  serve  it,  after  Keform  was  gained." 

He  smiled,  and  jocularly  thanked  me  for  my  good  opin- 
ion. 

"  Nay,  such  service  is  almost  your  duty  ;  you  yourself 
once  thought  so  too.     Why  have  you  changed  your  mind  ?  " 

"1  have  not  changed  my  mind,  but  circumstances  have 
changed  my  actions.  As  for  duty — duty  begins  at  home. 
Believe  me,  I  have  thought  well  over  the  subject.  Brother, 
"we  will  not  refer  to  it  again," 

I  saw  that  something  in  the  matter  pained  him,  and 
obeyed  his  wish.  Even  Avhen,  a  few  days  after,  perhaps 
as  some  compensation  for  the  mother's  disappointment,  he 
gave  this  hint  of  Guy's  taking  his  place  and  entering  Par- 
liament in  his  room. 

For  any  one — nay,  his  own  son — to  take  John's  place,  to 
stand  in  John's  room,  was  not  a  pleasant  thought,  even  in 


JOHliT   HALIFAX.  611 

jest;  we  let  it  pass  by  unanswered,  and  John  himself  did 
not  recur  to  it. 

Thus  time  Avent  on,  jdacidly  enough  ;  the  father  and 
mother  changed  into  grandfather  and  grandmother,  and 
little  Maud  into  Auntie  Maud.  She  bore  her  new  honors 
and  fulfilled  her  new  duties  with  great  delight  and  success. 
She  had  altered  much  of  late  years  :  at  twenty  was  as  old 
as  many  a  woman  of  thirty — in  all  the  advantages  of  age. 
She  was  sensible,  active,  resolute,  and  wise  ;  sometimes 
thoughtful,  or  troubled  with  fits  of  what  in  any  less  whole- 
some temperament  would  have  been  melancholy  ;  but  as  it 
was,  her  humors  only  betrayed  themselves  in  some  slight 
restlessness  or  irritability,  easily  soothed  by  a  few  tender 
words,  or  a  rush  out  to  Edwin's,  and  a  peaceful  coming 
back  to  that  happy  home,  Avhose  principal  hajipiness  she 
kneAV  that  she,  tlie  only  daughter,  made. 

She  more  than  once  had  unexceptioiiahlc  chances  of  quit- 
ting it ;  for  Miss  Halifax  possessed  plenty  of  attractions, 
both  outwardly  and  inwardly,  to  say  nothing  of  her  not  in- 
considerable fortune.  But  she  refused  all  offers,  and  to 
the  best  of  our  knowledge  was  a  free-hearted  damsel  still. 

Her  father  and  mother  seemed  rather  glad  of  this  than 
otherwise.  They  would  not  have  denied  her  any  happiness 
she  wished  for  ;  still  it  was  evidently  a  relief  to  them  that 
she  was  slow  in  choosing  it ;  slow  in  quitting  their  arms  of 
love  to  risk  a  love  untried.  Sometimes,  such  is  the  weak- 
ness of  parental  humanity,  I  verily  believe  they  looked  for- 
ward with  complacency  to  the  possibility  of  her  remaining 
always  Miss  Halifax,  I  remember  one  day,  when  Lady 
Oldtower  was  suggesting — half  jest,  half  earnest,  "'better 
any  marriage  than  no  marriage  at  all ; ''  Maud's  father 
replied  very  seriously — 

"  Better  no  marriage,  than  any  marriage  that  is  less  than 
the  best." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

''I  believe,"  he  said,  smiling,  "that  somewhere  in  the 
world  every  man  has  his  right  wife,  every  woman  her  right 
husband.  If  my  Maud's  comes,  he  shall  have  her.  If  not, 
I  shall  be  well  content  to  see  her  a  happy  old  maid." 


512  JOHI^    HALIFAX. 

Thus,  after  many  storms,  came  this  hill  in  our  lives ; 
a  season  of  busy  yet  monotonous  cahn.  I  have  heard  say 
that  peace  itself,  to  be  perfect,  ought  to  be  monotonous. 
We  had  enough  of  it  to  satisfy  our  daily  need  ;  we  looked 
forward  to  more  of  it  in  time  to  come,  when  Guy  should  be 
at  home,  when  Ave  should  see  safely  secured  the  futures  of 
all  the  children,  and  for  ourselves  a  green  old  age — 

"Journeying  in  long  serenity  away." 

A  time  of  heavenly  calm — which,  as  I  look  back  upon  it, 
grows  heavenlier  still ! — Soft  summer  days  and  autumn 
afternoons,  sjient  under  the  beech-wood,  or  on  the  Flat. 
Quiet  winter  evenings,  all  to  ourselves — Maud  and  her 
mother  working,  Walter  drawing.  The  father  sitting  with 
his  back  to  the  lamp — its  light  making  a  radiance  over  his 
brow  and  white  bald  crown,  and  as  it  thrilled  through  the 
curls  behind,  restoring  somewhat  of  the  youthful  color  to 
his  fading  hair.  Nay,  the  old  youthful  ring  of  his  voice  I 
caught  at  times,  when  he  found  sometliing  funny  in  his 
book  and  read  it  out  aloud  to  us ;  or  laying  it  down,  sat 
talking,  as  he  liked  to  talk,  about  things  speculative,  philo- 
sophical, or  poetical — things  Avhich  he  had  necessarily  let 
sliji  in  the  hurry  and  press  of  his  business  life,  in  the  bur- 
den and  heat  of  the  day  ;  but  which  noAV,  as  the  cool 
shadows  of  evening  were  drawing  on,  assumed  a  beauty  and 
a  nearness,  and  were  again  caught  up  by  him— 2)recious  as 
tlie  dreams  of  his  vouth. 

Happy,  happy  time — sunshiny  summer,  peaceful  winter 
— we  marked  neither  as  they  passed  ;  but  now  we  hold 
both — in  a  sacredness  inexpressible — a  foretaste  of  that 
Land  where  there  is  neither  summer  nor  winter,  neither 
days  nor  years. 

The  first  break  in  our  repose  came  early  in  tlie  new  year. 
There  had  been  no  Christmas  letter  from  Cfuy,  and  he 
never  once  in  all  his  wanderings  had  missed  Avriting  home 
at  Christmas  time.  When  the  usual  monthly  mail  came  in, 
and  no  Avord  from  him — a  second  month,  and  yet  nothing, 
we  began  to  wonder  about  his  omission  less  openly — to  cease 
scolding  him  for  his  carelessness.     Though  over  and  over 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  513 

again  we  still  eagerly  brought  uy)  instances  of  the  latter — 
"  Guy  is  sucli  a  thoughtless  boy  about  his  corresi:)on(lence." 

Gradually  as  his  mother's  cheek  grew  paler,  and  his  father 
more  anxious-eyed,  more  compulsorily  cheerful,  we  gave 
up. discussing  publicly  the  many  excellent  reasons  why  no 
letters  should  come  from  Guy.  We  had  written  as  usual, 
by  every  mail.  By  the  lust — by  the  March  mail,  I  saw  that 
in  addition  to  the  usual  packet  for  ]\Ir.  Guy  Halifax — his 
father,  taking  another  precautionary  measure,  had  written 
in  business  form  to  "  Messrs.  Guy  Halifax  and  Co."  Guy 
had  always,  "just  like  his  carelessness  !"  omitted  to  give 
the  name  of  his  partner  ;  but  addressed  thus,  in  case  of  any 
sudden  journey  or  illness  of  Guy's,  the  partner,  whoever 
he  was,  would  be  sure  to  write. 

In  May — nay,  it  was  on  May-day,  I  remember,  for  we 
were  down  in  the  mill-meadows  with  Louise,  and  her  little 
ones,  going  a-maying — there  eanu;  in  the  American  mail. 

It  brought  a  large  packet — all  our  letters  of  this  year  sent 
back  again,  directed  in  a  strange  hand,  to  "John  Halifax, 
Esquire,  Beech  wood,"  with  the  annotation,  "•  By  Mr.  Guy 
Halifax's  desire." 

Among  the  rest — though  the  sickening  sight  of  them 
had  blinded  even  his  mother  at  first,  so  that  her  eye  did  not 
catch  it,  was  one  that  explained — most  satisfactorily  ex- 
plained, Ave  said — the  reason  they  were  thus  returned.  It 
was  a  few  lines  from  Guy  himself,  stating  that  unexpected 
oood  fortune  had  made  him  determine  to  come  home  at 
once.  If  circumstances  thwarted  this  intention,  he  would 
write  without  fail ;  otherwise  he  should  most  likely  sail  by 
an  American  merchantman — the  Stars-and-Stripes. 

''  Then  he  is  coming  home.     On  his  way  home  !  " 

And  the  mother,  as  with  one  shaking  hand  she  held  fast 
the  letter,  with  the  other  steadied  herself  by  the  rail  of 
John's  desk — I  guessed  now  why  he  had  ordered  all  the 
letters  to  be  brought  first  to  his  counting-house.  "When 
do  you  think  we  shall  see — Guy  ?" 

At  thought  of  that  happy  sight,  her  bravery  broke  down. 
She  wept  heartily  and  long. 

John  sat  still,  leaning  over  the  front  of  his  desk.  By 
33 


514  JOHK    HALIFAX. 

his  sigh,  deep  and  glad,  one  conldtell  what  a  load  was  lifted 
off  the  father's  heart,  at  prospect  of  his  son's  return. 

'"'The  liners  are  only  a  month  in  sailing  ;  but  this  is  a 
barque  most  likely,  which  takes  longer  time.  Love,  show 
me  the  date  of  the  boy's  letter." 

She  looked  for  it  herself.     It  was  in  January  I 

The  sudden  fall  from  certainty  to  uncertainty — the  wild 
clutch  at  that  which  hardly  seemed  a  real  joy  until  seen 
fading  down  to  a  mere  hope,  a  chance,  a  possibility — who 
has  not  known  all  this  ? 

I  remember  how  we  all  stood — mute  and  panic-struck,  in 
the  dark  little  counting-house.  I  remember  seeing  Louise, 
with  her  children  in  tlie  door-way,  trying  to  hush  their 
laughing,  and  whispering  to  them  something  about  '•2:)oor 
Uncle  Guy." 

John  was  the  first  to  grasp  the  unspoken  dread,  and  show 
that  it  was  less  than  at  first  appeared. 

"  We  ought  to  have  had  this  letter  two  months  ago  ;  this 
shows  how  often  delays  occur — we  ought  not  to  be  sur- 
prised or  uneasy  at  anything.  Guy  does  not  say  when  the 
ship  was  to  sail — she  may  be  on  her  vo3^age  still.  If  he 
had  but  given  the  name  of  her  owners.  But  I  can  write 
to  Lloyd's  and  find  out  everything.  Cheer  up,  mother. — 
Please  God,  you  shall  have  that  wandering,  heedless  boy 
of  yours  back  before  long." 

He  replaced  the  letters  in  their  enclosure — held  a  general 
consultation,  into  which  he  threw  a  passing  gleam  of  faint 
gaiety,  as  to  Avhether  being  ours,  we  had  a  right  to  burn 
them,  or  whether  having  passed  through  the  post-office 
they  were  not  the  writer's  but  the  owner's  projDerty,  and 
Guy  could  claim  them  with  all  their  useless  news,  on  his 
arrival  in  England.  Tins  was  finally  decided,  and  the 
mother,  with  a  faint  smile,  declared  that  nobody  should 
touch  them  ;  she  would  put  them  under  lock  and  key  "till 
Guy  came  home." 

Then  she  took  her  husband's  arm  ;  and  the  rest  of  us 
followed  them,  as  they  walked  slowly  uj^  the  hill  to  Beech- 
wood. 

But  after  that  day  Mrs.  Halifax's  strength  decayed.    Not 


JOHK   HALIFAX.  515 

sudlenly,  scrvrcely  perceptibly  ;  not  with  any  outward  com- 
plaint, exoept  what  she  jested  over  as  "  the  natural  weak- 
ness of  old  age  ;  "  but  there  was  an  evident  chanfj;e.  Week 
by  week,  her  long  walks  shortened  ;  she  gave  up  her  village 
school  to  me ;  and  though  she  went  al)0ut  the  house  still 
and  insisted  on  keeping  the  keys,  gradualh',  "just  for  the 
sake  of  practice,^'  the  domestic  surveillance  fell  into  the 
hands  of  Maud. 

An  answer  arrived  from  Lloyd's  :  the  Stars-and-Stripet: 
was  an  American  vessel,  probably  of  small  tonnage  and 
importance,  for  the  underwriters  knew  nothing  of  it. 

More  delay — more  suspense.  The  sunnner  days  came — 
l)ut  not  Guy.     No  news  of  him — not  a  Avord — not  a  line. 

His  father  wrote  to  America — pursuing  inquiries  in  all 
directions.  At  last,  some  tangible  clue  was  caught.  The 
St ars-and- Stripes  had  sailed,  had  been  s})oken  with  about 
the  Windward  Isles — and  never  heard  of  afterwards. 

Still,  there  was  a  hope— John  told  the  hope  first,  before 
he  ventured  to  speak  of  the  missing  ship,  and  even  then 
had  to  break  the  news  gently,  for  the  mother  had  growm 
frail  and  weak,  and  could  not  bear  things  as  she  used  to  do. 
She  clung  as  if  they  had  been  words  of  life  or  death,  to  the 
shipowner's  postscript — "that  they  had  no  recollection  of 
the  name  of  Halifax  ;  there  might  have  been  such  a  gentle- 
man on  board — they  could  not  say.  But  it  was  not  proba- 
ble ;  for  theStars-and-Stripeswas  a  trading  vessel,  and  had 
not  good  accommodation  for  passengers." 

Then  came  week  after  week — I  knew  not  how  they  went 
by — one  never  does,  afterwards.  At  the  time,  they  were 
frightfully  vivid,  hour  by  hour  ;  we  rose  each  morning, 
sure  that  some  hope  would  come  in  the  course  of  the  day  ; 
we  went  to  bed  at  night,  heavily,  as  if  there  were  no  such 
thing  as  hope  in  the  world.  Gradually,  and  I  think  that 
was  the  worst  consciousness  of  all — our  life  of  suspense  be- 
came perfectly  natural  ;  and  everything  in  and  about  the 
house  went  on  as  usual,  just  as  though  we  knew  quite  ^vell 
— what  the  Almighty  Father  alone  knew  ! — where  our  poor 
lad  was,  and  what  had  become  of  him.  Or  rather,  as  if  we 
had  settled  in  the  certainty  which  perhaps  the  end  of  our 


516  JOHK    HALIFAX. 

own  lives  alone  Avonld  bring  ns,  that  he  had  slipped  out  of 
life  altogether,  and  there  was  no  such  being  as  Guy  Halifax 
under  this  pitiless  sun. 

The  mother's  heart  was  breaking.  She  made  no  moan, 
but  we  saw  it  in  her  face.  One  morning — it  was  the  morn- 
ing after  John's  birthday,  which  we  had  made  a  feint  of 
keeping,  witli  Grace  Oldtower,  the  two  little  grand-children, 
Edwin  and  Louise — slie  was  absent  at  breakfast  and  at  din- 
ner ;  she  had  not  slept  well,  and  was  too  tired  to  rise.  Many 
days  following  it  happened  the  same  ;  with  the  same  faint 
excuse,  or  with  no  excuse  at  all.  How  we  missed  her  about 
the  house  I — ay,  changed  as  she  had  been.  How  her  hus- 
band Avandered  aliout,  ghost-like,  from  room  to  room  ! — 
could  not  rest  anywhere,  or  do  anything.  Finally,  he  left 
our  company  altogether,  and  during  the  hours  that  lie  was 
at  home  rarely  quitted  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  the 
quiet  bed-chamber,  where,  every  time  his  foot  entered  it, 
the  poor  pale  face  looked  up  and  smiled. 

Ay,  smiled  ;  for  I  noticed,  as  many  another  may  have 
done  in  similar  cases,  that  when  her  physical  health  defi- 
nitively gave  way,  her  mental  health  returned.  The  heavy 
burthen  was  lighter  ;  she  grew  more  cheerful ,  more  patient ; 
seemed  to  submit  herself  to  the  Almighty  will,  vv'hatever  it 
might  be  ;  as  she  lay  on  her  sofa  in  the  study,  where  one  or 
two  evenings  John  carried  her  down,  almost  as  easily  as  he 
used  to  carry  little  Muriel,  liis  wife  would  rest  content  with 
her  hand  in  his,  listening  to  his  reading,  or  quietly  looking 
at  him,  as  though  her  lost  son's  face,  which  a  few  weeks 
since  she  said  haunted  her  continually,  were  now  forgotten 
in  his  father's.  Perhaps  she  thought  the  one  she  should 
soon  see — while  the  other — 

"Phineas,"  she  whispered  one  day,  when  I  was  putting  a 
shawl  over  her  feet,  or  doing  some  other  trifle  that  she 
thanked  me  for — "  Phineas, — if  anything  happens  to  me, 
you  will  comfort  John  ?  " 

Then  first  I  began  seriously  to  contemplate  a  possibility, 
hitherto  as  impossible  and  imdreamed  of  as  that  the  moon 
should  drop  out  of  the  height  of  heaven. — What  would 
the  house  be  without  the  mother  ? 


JOHIf    HALIFAX.  517 

Her  children  never  suspected  this,  I  saw  :  but  they  wore 
young — for  her  husband — 

I  could  not  understand  John.  He,  so  quick-sighted  ;  he 
who,  meeting  any  sorrow,  looked  steadily  up  at  the  Hand 
that  smote  him,  knowing  neither  the  coward's  dread,  nor 
the  unbeliever's  disguise  of  jjain — surely  he  must  see  what 
was  impending.  Yet  he  was  as  calm  as  if  he  saw  it  not. 
Calm,  as  no  man  could  be,  contemplating  the  supreme  part- 
ing between  two  who  nearly  all  their  lives  had  been  not 
two,  but  one  flesh. 

Yet  I  had  once  heard  him  say  that  a  great  love,  and  only 
that,  makes  parting  easy.  Could  it  be  that  this  love  of  his, 
which  had  clasped  his  wife  so  firmly,  faithfully,  and  long, 
fearlessly  clasj^ed  her  still,  by  its  own  2>erfectness  assured 
of  its  immortality. 

But  all  the  while  his  human  love  clung  about  her,  show- 
ing itself  in  a  thousand  forms  of  watchful  tenderness.  And 
hers  clung  to  liim,  closely,  dependently  ;  she  let  herself  be 
taken  care  of,  ruled  and  guided,  as  if  with  him  she  found 
helplessness  restful  and  submission  sweet.  Many  a  little 
outward  fondness,  that  when  people  have  been  long  mar- 
ried naturally  drops  into  disuse,  was  revived  again  ;  he  would 
bring  her  flowers  out  of  the  garden,  or  new  books  from  tlie 
town  ;  and  many  a  time,  when  no  one  noticed,  I  have  seen 
him  stoop  and  ])ress  his  lips  upon  the  faded  hand,  wh.ere 
the  wedding-ring  "hung  so  loosely  ; — his  own  for  so  nuiny 
years,  his  own  till  the  dust  claimed  it,  that  well-beloved 
hand  ! 

Ay,  he  was  right.  Loss,  affliction,  death  itself,  are  pow- 
erless in  the  presence  of  such  a  love  as  theirs. 

It  was  already  in  the  middle  of  July.  From  January  to 
July — six  months  !  Our  neighbors  without — and  there 
were  many  who  felt  for  us— never  asked  now,  "  Is  there 
any  news  of  Mr.  Guy  ?  "  Even  pretty  Grace  Oldtower — 
pretty  still,  but  youthful  no  longer — only  lifted  her  eyes 
inquiringly  as  she  crossed  our  doorway,  and  dropped  them 
again  with  a  hopeless  sigh.  She  had  loved  us  all,  faithfully 
and  well,  for  a  great  many  years. 

One  night,  when  Miss  Oldtower  had  just  gone  home  after 


518  JOHN"    HALIFAX. 

staying  with  us  the  whole  day — Maud  and  I  sat  in  the 
study  by  ourselves,  where  we  generally  sat  now.  The 
father  spent  all  his  evenings  up-stairs.  We  could  hear  his 
step  overhead  as  he  crossed  the  room  or  opened  the  window, 
then  drew  his  chair  back  to  its  constant  place  by  his  wife's 
bedside.  Sometimes  there  was  a  faint  murmur  of  reading 
or  talk  ;  then  long  silence. 

Maud  and  I  sat  in  silence  too.  She  had  her  own  thoughts 
■ — I  mine.  Perhaps  they  were  often  one  and  the  same  :  per- 
haps— for  youth  is  youth  after  all — they  may  have  diverged 
widely.  Hers  were  deep,  absorbed  thoughts,  at  any  rate, 
travelling  fast — fast  as  her  needle  travelled  ;  for  she  had 
imperceptibly  fallen  into  her  mother's  ways  and  her  mother's 
work. 

We  had  the  lanij)  lit,  but  the  windows  were  wide  open  ; 
and  through  the  sultry  summer  night  we  could  hear  the 
trickle  of  the  stream  and  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  in  the 
beechwood.  We  sat  very  still,  waiting  for  nothing,  expect- 
ing nothiug  ;  in  the  dull  patience  which  always  fell  upon  us 
about  this  hour — the  hour  before  bedtime,  when  nothiug 
more  was  to  be  looked  for  but  how  best  to  meet  another 
dreary  day. 

"  Maud,  was  that  the  click  of  the  front  gate  swinging  ?'' 

"No,  I  told  Walter  to  lock  it  before  he  went  to  bed. 
Last  night  it  disturbed  my  mother." 

Again  silence.  So  deep  that  the  maid's  opening  the 
door  made  us  both  start. 

"  Miss  Halifax — there's  a  gentleman  wanting  to  see  Miss 
Halifax." 

Maud  sprang  up  in  her  chair,  breathless. 

"  Any  one  you  know,  is  it  ?  " 

"No,  Miss/' 

"  Show  the  gentleman  in." 

He  stood  already  in  the  doorway, — tall,  brown,  bearded. 
Maud  just  glanced  at  him,  then  rose,  bending  stiffly,  after 
the  manner  of  j\Iiss  Halifax  of  Beechwood. 

"  Will  you  be  seated  ?     My  father—" 

'*'  Maud,  don't  you  know  me  ?  Where's  my  mother  ?  1 
am  Guy." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Guy  and  his  mother  were  together.  She  hi}'  on  a  sofa 
in  her  dressing-room  ;  lie  sat  on  a  stool  beside  her,  so  that 
her  arm  could  rest  on  his  neck,  and  she  could  now  and 
then  turn  his  face  towards  her  and  look  at  it ; — oh,  what  a 
look  ! 

She  had  had  him  with  her  for  two  whole  da3's — two  days 
to  be  set  against  eight  3^ears  !  Yet  the  eight  years  seemed 
already  to  have  collapsed  into  a  span  of  time,  and  the  two 
days  to  have  risen  up  a  great  mountain  of  ha])piness,  mak- 
ing a  barrier  complete  against  the  woful  past,  as  happiness 
can  do — thanks  to  the  AU-merciful  for  His  mercies.  Most 
especially  for  that  mercy — true  as  His  truth  to  the  experi- 
ence of  all  pure  hearts, — that  one  bright,  brief  season  of  joy 
can  outweigh,  in  reality  and  even  in  remembrance,  w^hole 
years  of  apparently  interminable  pain. 

Two  days  only  since  the  night  (.luy  came  home,  and  yet 
it  seemed  months  ago.  Already  we  had  grown  familiar  to 
the  tall  bearded  figure  ;  the  strange  stejj  and  voice  about 
the  house  ;  all  except  Maud,  who  was  rather  shy  and  re- 
served still.  We  had  ceased  the  endeavor  to  recoiicile  this 
our  Guy — this  tall,  grave  man  of  nearly  tliirty,  looking 
thirty-five  and  more — with  Guy,  the  boy  that  left  us,  the 
boy  that  in  all  our  lives  Ave  never  should  find  again.  Never- 
theless, we  took  him,  just  as  he  was,  to  our  hearts,  rejoicing 
in  him  one  and  all  with  inexpressible  joy. 

He  was  much  altered,  certainly.  It  was  natural,  nay, 
right,  that  he  should  be.  He  had  suffered  much  ;  a  great 
deal  more  than  he  ever  told  us — at  least,  not  till  long  after  ; 
had  gone  through  poverty,  labor,  sickness,  shipwreck.  He 
had  written  home  by  the  Stars-and-Stripes — sailed  a  fort- 

619 


520  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

night  later  by  another  vessel — been  cast  away — picked  up 
by  an  outward  bound  ship^ — and  finally  landed  in  England, 
he  and  his  partner,  as  penniless  as  they  left  it. 

"Was  your  partner  an  Englishman  then  ?"  said  Maud, 
who  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  listening.  "  You  have  not 
told  us  anything  about  him  yet." 

Guy  half  smiled.  "  I  will,  by-and-by.  It's  a  long  story. 
Just  now,  I  don't  want  to  think  of  anybody  or  anything 
except  my  mother." 

He  turned  as  he  did  twenty  times  a-day,  to  press  his 
rough  cheek  upon  her  hand  and  look  up  into  her  thin  face, 
his  eyes  overflowing  with  love. 

"You  must  get  well  now,  mother.     Promise  !  " 

Her  smile  promised — and  even  began  the  fulfilment  of 
the  same. 

"I  think  she  looks  stronger  already  ; — does  she,  Maud  ? 
You  know  her  looks  better  than  I ;  I  don't  ever  remember 
her  being  ill  in  old  times.  Oh,  mother,  I  will  never  leave 
you  again — never  !  " 

"No,  my  boy." 

"No,  Guy,  no." — John  came  in,  and  stood  watching 
them  both  contentedly.  "  No,  my  son,  you  must  never 
leave  your  mother." 

"  I  will  not  leave  either  of  you,  father,"  said  Guy,  Avith 
a  reverent  affection  that  must  have  gladdened  the  mother's 
heart  to  the  very  core.  Kesigning  his  place  by  her,  Guy 
took  Maud's  facing  them  ;  and  father  and  son  began  to 
talk  of  various  matters  concerning  their  home  and  busi- 
ness arrangements ;  taking  coinscl  together,  as  father 
and  son  ought  to  do.  These  eight  years  of  separation 
seemed  to  have  brought  them  nearer  together  ;  the  dif- 
ference between  them — in  age,  far  less  than  between  most 
fathers  and  sons,  had  narrowed  into  a  meeting  point. 
Never  in  all  his  life  had  Guy  been  so  deferent,  so  loving  to 
his  father.  And  with  a  peculiar  trust  and  tenderness, 
John's  heart  turned  to  his  eldest  son,  the  heir  of  his  name, 
his  successor  at  Enderley  Mills.  For,  in  order  that  Guy 
might  at  once  take  his  natural  place  and  feel  no  longer  a 
waif  and  stray  upon  the  world,  already  a  plan  had  been 


JOH>f    HALIFAX.  521 

started,  that  the  firm  of  Halifax  and  Sons,  should  become 
Halifax  Brothers.  Perhaps,  ere  very  long — only  the 
mother  said  privately,  rather  anxiously  too,  that  she  did 
not  wish  this  part  of  the  scheme  to  be  mentioned  to  Guy 
just  now — perhaps,  ere  long  it  would  be  "Guy  Halifax, 
Esquire,  of  Beechwood  ;"  and  ''  the  old  people  "  at  happy 
little  Longfield. 

As  yet,  Guy  had  seen  nobody  but  ourselves,  and  nobody 
had  seen  Guy.  Though  his  mother  gave  various  good 
reasons  why  ho  should  not  make  his  public  appearance  as 
a  "shipwrecked  mariner" — costume  and  all,  yet  it  was 
easy  to  perceive  that  she  looked  forward  not  without  ap- 
prehension to  some  meetings  which  must  necessarily  soon 
occur,  but  to  which  Guy  made  not  the  smallest  allusion. 
He  had  asked,  cursorily  and  generally,  after  "all  my 
brothers  and  sisters,"  and  been  answered  in  the  same  tone  ; 
but  neither  he  nor  wo  had  as  yet  mentioned  the  names  of 
Edwin  or  Louise, 

They  knew  he  was  come  home  ;  but  how  and  where  the 
first  momentous  meeting  should  take  place,  we  left  entirely 
to  chance,  or,  more  rightly  speaking,  to  Providence. 

So  it  happened  thus.  Guy  was  sitting  quietly  on  the 
sofa  at  his  mother's  feet,  and  his  father  and  he  were  plan- 
ning together  in  what  way  could  best  be  celebrated,  by 
our  school-children,  tenants,  and  work-people,  an  event 
which  we  took  a  great  interest  in,  though  not  greater  than 
in  this  year  was  taken  by  all  classes  throughout  the  king- 
dom— the  day  fixed  for  the  abolition  of  Negro  Slavery  in 
our  Colonies — the  1st  of  August,  1834.  He  sat  in  an  at- 
titude that  reminded  me  of  his  boyish  lounging  ways  ;  the 
picture  of  content ;  though  a  stream  of  sunshine  pouring 
in  upon  his  head  through  the  closed  Venetian  blind, 
showed  many  a  deep  line  of  care  on  his  forehead,  and 
more  than  one  silver  thread  among  his  brown  hair. 

In  a  pause — during  which  no  one  exactly  liked  to  ask 
what  we  were  all  thinking  aliout — there  came  a  little  tap 
at  the  door,  and  a  little  voice  outside. 

"  Please,  me  want  to  come  in."" 

Maud  jumped  up,  to  refuse  admission  ;  but  Mr,  Halifax 


523  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

forbade  her,  and  himself  went  and  opened  the  door.  A 
little  child  stood  there — -a  little  girl  of  three  years  old. 

Aj)parently  guessing  who  she  was,  Guy  rose  up  hastily, 
and  sat  down  in  his  place  again. 

"  Come  in,  little  maid,"  said  the  father  ;  "come  in,  and 
tell  us  what  you  want." 

"  Me  want  to  see  Grannie  and  Uncle  Guy." 

Guy  started,  but  still  he  kept  his  seat.  The  mother 
took  her  grandchild  in  her  feeble  arms,  and  kissed  her, 
saying  softly, 

"  There — that  is  Uncle  Guy.     Go  and  speak  to  him." 

And  then,  touching  his  knees,  Guy  felt  the  tiny,  fearless 
hand.  He  turned  round,  and  looked  at  the  little  thing 
reluctantly,  inquisitively.  Still  he  did  not  speak  to  or 
touch  her. 

"  Are  you  Uncle  Guy  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Why  don't  you  kiss  me  ?  Everybody  kisses  me,"  said 
everybody's  pet  ;  neither  frightened  nor  shy  ;  never  dream- 
ing of  a  repulse. 

Nor  did  she  find  it.  Her  little  fingers  were  suffered  to 
cling  round  the  tightly-closed  hand. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Louise — mamma's  little  Louise." 

Guy  put  back  the  curls,  and  gazed  long  and  wistfully 
into  the  childish  face,  where  the  inherited  beauty  was  re- 
peated line  for  line.  But  softened,  spiritualized,  as,  years 
after  its  burial,  some  ghost  of  a  man's  old  sorrows  may  rise 
up  and  meet  him,  the  very  spirit  of  peace  shining  out  of 
its  celestial  eyes. 

"  Little  Louise,  you  are  very  like — " 

He  stopped — and  bending  down,  kissed  her.  In  that 
kiss  vanished  forever  the  last  shadow  of  his  boyhood's  love. 
Not  that  he  forgot  it — God  forbid  that  any  good  man 
should  ever  either  forget  or  be  ashamed  of  his  first-love  ! 
But  it  and  all  its  pain  fled  far  away,  back  into  the  sacred 
eternities  of  dream-land. 

When,  looking  up  at  last,  he  saw  a  large,  fair,  matronly 
lady  sitting  by  his  mother's  sofa,  Guy  neither  started  nor 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  523 

turned  pale.  It  was  another  and  not  his  lost  Louise.  He 
rose  and  offered  her  his  hand. 

"  You  see,  your  little  daughter  has  made  friends  with  me 
already.  8he  is  very  like  you  ;  only  she  has  Edwin's  hair. 
Where  is  my  brother  Edwin  ?  " 

"  Here,  old  fellow.      Welcome  home." 

The  two  brothers  met  warmly,  nay,  affectionately.  Ed- 
win was  not  given  to  demonstration  ;  luit  I  saw  how  his 
features  twitched,  and  how  he  busied  himself  over  the 
knots  in  his  little  girl's  pinafore  for  a  minute  or  more. 
When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  as  if  nothing  had  happened 
and  Guy  had  never  been  away. 

For  the  mother,  she  lay  with  her  arms  folded,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other  mutely,  or  closing  her  eyes  with  a 
faint  stirring  of  the  lips,  like  prayer.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
dared  only  thus  to  meet  her  exceeding  joy. 

Soon,  Edwin  and  Louise  left  us  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
Guy  went  on  with  the  history  of  his  life  in  America  and 
his  partner  who  had  come  home  with  him,  and,  like  him- 
self, had  lost  his  all. 

"  Harder  for  him  than  for  me  ;  he  is  older  than  I  am. 
He  knew  nothing  whatever  of  business  when  he  offered 
himself  as  my  clerk  ;  since  then  he  has  worked  like  a  slave. 
In  a  fever  I  had,  he  nursed  me  ;  he  has  been  to  me  these 
three  years  the  best,  truest  friend.  He  is  the  noblest  fel- 
low.    Father,  if  you  only  knew — " 

"  Well,  my  son,  let  me  know  him.  Invite  the  gentle- 
man to  Beecliwood  ;  or  shall  I  write  and  ask  him  ?  Maud, 
fetch  me  your  mother's  desk.  Xow  then,  Guy — you  are  a 
very  forgetful  fellow  still ;  you  have  never  yet  told  us  your 
friend's  name." 

Guy  looked  steadily  at  his  father,  in  his  own  straightfor- 
ward way  ;  hesitated — then  apparently  made  up  his  mind. 

"  I  did  not  tell  von,  because  he  wished  me  not ;  not  till 
you  understood  him  as  well  as  I  do.  You  knew  him  your- 
self once — but  he  has  wisely  dropped  his  title.  Since  he 
came  over  to  me  in  America,  he  has  been  only  Mr.  William 
Ravenel." 

This  discovery — natural  enough  when  one  began  to  think 


524  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

over  it,  but  incredible  at  first,  astounded  us  all.  For  Maud 
—well  was  it  that  the  little  Louise  seated  in  her  lap  hid  and 
controlled  in  some  measure  the  violent  agitation  of  poor 

Auntie  Maud, 

Ay— Maud  loved  him.  Perhaps  she  had  guessed  the 
secret  cause  of  his  departure,  and  love  creates  love,  often- 
times. Then  his  brave  renunciation  of  rank,  fortune,  even 
of  herself — women  glory  in  a  moral  hero — one  who  has 
strength  to  lose  even  love,  and  bear  its  loss,  for  the  sake  of 
duty  or  of  honor.  His  absence,  too,  might  have  done 
much  ; — absence  which  smothers  into  decay  a  rootless  fancy, 
but  often  nourishes  the  least  seed  of  a  true  affection  into 
full-flowering  love.  Ay — Maud  loved  him.  How,  or  why, 
or  when,  at  first,  no  one  could  tell— perhaps  not  even  her- 
self ;  but  so  it  was,  and  her  parents  saw  it. 

Both  were  deeply  moved — her  brother  likewise. 
"Father,"  he  whispered,   "  have  I  done  wrong?     I  did 
not  know — how  could  I  guess  ?  " 

"  No,  no — my  son.  It  is  very  strange— all  things  just 
now  seem  so  strange.  Maud,  my  child,"— and  John  roused 
himself  out  of  a  long  silence  into  which  he  was  falling, — 
"go,  and  take  Louise  to  her  mother." 

The  girl  rose,  eager  to  get  away.  As  she  crossed  the 
room — the  little  creature  clinging  round  her  neck,  and  she 
clasping  it  close,  in  the  sweet  motherliness  of  character 
which  had  come  to  her  so  early— I  thought— I  hoped— 

"  Maud  ! "  said  John,  catching  her  hand  as  she  passed 
hini  by — "  Maud  is  not  afraid  of  her  father  ?  " 

'<  No," — in  troubled  uncertainty — then  with  a  passionate 
decision,  as  if  ashamed  of  herself — "No  !" 

She  leaned  over  his  chair-back  and  kissed  him — then 
went  out. 

"Now— Guy." 

Guy  told,  in  his  own  frank  way,  all  the  history  of  him- 
self and  William  Ravenel ;  how  the  latter  had  come  to 
America,  determined  to  throw  his  lot  for  good  or  ill,  to 
sink  or  swim,  with  Maud's  brother— chiefly,  as  Guy  had 
slowly  discovered,  because  he  was  Maud's  brother.  At  last 
in  the  open  boat,  on  the  Atlantic,  witli  death  the  great 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  535 

fievealer  of  all  things  staring  them  in  the  face — tlie  whole 
secret  came  out.  It  made  them  better  than  friends — ■ 
brothers. 

Tliis  was  Guy's  story,  told  with  a  certain  spice  of  deter- 
mination too,  as  if — let  his  father's  will  be  what  it  might, 
his  own,  which  had  now  also  settled  into  the  strong 
''family"  will,  was  resolute  on  his  friend's  behalf.  Yet 
when  he  saw  how  grave,  nay  sad,  the  father  sat,  he  became 
humble  again,  and  ended  his  tale  even  as  he  had  begun, 
with  the  entreaty — "  Father,  if  you  only  knew " 

"  My  knowing  and  my  judging  seem  to  have  been  of 
little  value,  my  son.  Be  it  so.  There  is  One  wiser  than  I 
— One  in  whose  hands  are  the  issues  of  all  things." 

The  sort  of  contrition  with  which  he  si:)oke — thus  retract- 
ing, as  it  costs  most  men  so  much  to  retract,  a  decision 
given,  however  justly  at  the  time,  but  which  fate  has  af- 
terwards pronounced  unjust,  affected  his  son  deeply. 

"Father,  your  decision  was  right, — William  says  it  was. 
He  says  also,  that  it  could  not  have  been  otherwise  ;  that 
whatever  he  has  become  since,  he  owes  it  all  to  you,  and  to 
what  passed  that  day.  Though  he  loves  her  still,  will  never 
love  any  one  else ;  yet  he  declares  his  loss  of  her  has  proved 
his  salvation." 

"He  is  right,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax.  "Love  is  worth 
nothing  that  will  not  stand  trial — a  fiery  trial,  if  needs  be. 
And  as  I  have  heard  John  say  many  and  many  a  time — as 
he  said  that  very  night — in  this  Avorld  there  is  not,  ought 
not  to  be,  any  such  words  as  '  too  late.' " 

John  made  no  answer.  He  sat,  his  chin  propped  on  his 
right  hand,  the  other  pi'essed  against  his  bosom — his  favorite 
attitude.  Once  or  twice,  with  a  deep-drawn,  painful  breath, 
he  sighed. 

Guy's  eagerness  could  not  rest.  "  Father,  I  told  him  1 
would  either  write  to  or  see  him  to-day." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"Ac  Norton  Bury,  Nothing  would  induce  him  to  come 
here,  unless  certain  that  you  desired  it." 

"  I  do  desire  it." 

Guy  started  up  with  great  joy.     "  Shall  I  write  then  ?  " 


526  JOHN"    HALIFAX. 

"  I  will  write  myself." 

But  John's  hand  sliook  so  mucli,  that  instead  of  his  cus- 
tomary free  bold  writing,  he  left  only  blots  upon  the  page. 
He  leant  back  in  his  chair,  and  said,  faintly  : 

"  I  am  getting  an  old  man,  I  see.  Gruy,  it  was  high 
time  you  came  home.'' 

Mrs.  Halifax  thought  he  was  tired,  and  made  a  place  for 
his  head  on  her  pillow,  where  he  rested  some  minutes, 
"  just  to  please  her,"  he  said.  Then  he  rose,  and  declared 
he  \\K)uld  himself  drive  over  to  Norton  Bury  for  our  old 
friend. 

"  Nay,  let  me  write,  father.  To-morrow  will  do  just  as 
well." 

The  father  shook  his  head.     "  ISTo — it  must  be  to-day." 

Bidding  good-bye  to  his  wife — he  never  by  any  chance 
quitted  her  for  an  hour  without  a  special  tender  leave- 
taking — John  went  away. 

Guy  was,  he  avouched,  '^as  happy  as  a  king."  His  old 
liveliness  returned  ;  he  declared  that  in  this  matter,  which 
had  long  weighed  heavily  on  his  mind,  he  had  acted  like  a 
great  diplomatist,  or  like  the  gods  themselves,  whom  some 
unexacting,  humble  youth  calls  upon  to 

"  Annihilate  both  time  and  space. 
And  make  two  lovers  happy." 

"  And  I'm  sure  I  shall  be  happy,  too,  in  seeing  them. 
They  shall  be  married  immediately.  And  we'll  take  William 
into  partnership — that  was  a  whim  of  his,  mother — we  call 
one  another  '  Guy,'  and  '  William,'  just  like  brothers. 
Heigho  !     I'm  very  glad.     Are  not  you  ?  " 

The  mother  smiled. 

"  You  will  soon  have  nobody  left  but  me.  No  matter. 
I  shall  have  you  all  to  myself,  and  be  at  once  a  spoiled 
child  and  an  uncommonly  merry  old  bachelor." 

Again  the  motlier  smiled,  without  reply.  She,  too, 
doubtless,  thought  herself  a  great  diplomatist. 

William  Ravenel — he  was  henceforward  never  anything 
to  us  but  William — came  home  with  Mr.  Halifax.  First, 
the   mother  saw  him  ;  then  I  heard  the  father  go  to  the 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  527 

maiden  bower  where  MaHcl  had  shut  herself  up  all  day — 
poor  child ! — and  fetch  his  daughter  down.  Lastly,  I 
watched  the  two — Mr.  Ravenel  and  Miss  Halifax — walk 
together  down  the  garden  and  into  the  beech-wood,  Avhere 
the  leaves  were  whispering,  and  the  stock-doves  cooing  ; 
and  where,  I  suj^pose,  they  told  and  listened  to  the  old  tale 
— old  as  Adam — yet  for  ever  beautiful  and  new. 

That  day  was  a  wonderful  day.  That  night  we  gathered, 
as  we  never  thought  we  should  gather  again  in  this  world, 
round  the  family  table — Guy,  Edwin,  Walter,  Maud,  Louise, 
and  William  Ravenel — all  changed,  yet  not  one  lost.  A 
true  love-feast  it  was  ;  a  renewed  celebration  of  the  family 
bond,  which  had  lasted  through  so  much  sorrow,  now 
knitted  up  once  more,  never  to  be  broken. 

When  we  came  quietly  to  examine  one  another,  and  fall 
into  one  another's  old  ways,  there  was  less  than  one  might 
have  expected  even  of  outward  change.  The  table  appeared 
the  same  ;  all  took  instinctively  their  old  places,  excej^t  that 
the  mother  lay  on  her  sofa,  and  Maud  presided  at  the  urn. 

It  did  one's  heart  good  to  look  at  j\raud,  as  she  busied 
herself  about,  in  her  ciiiydcity  ns  vice-re ine  of  the  household  ; 
perhaps,  with  a  natural  feeling,  liking  to  show  some  one 
present  how  mature  and  sedate  she  was — not  so  very  young 
after  all.  You  could  see  she  felt  deeply  how  much  he  loved 
her — how  her  love  was  to  him  like  the  restoring  of  his 
youth.  The  responsibility,  sweet  as  it  was,  made  her  wo- 
manly, made  her  grave.  She  would  be  to  him  at  once  wife 
and  child,  plaything  and  comforter,  sustainer  and  sustained. 
Ay,  love  levels  all  things.  They  were  not  ill-matched,  in 
spite  of  those  twenty  years. 

And  so  I  left  them,  and  went  and  sat  with  John  and 
Ursula — we,  the  generation  passing  away,  or  ready  to  pass, 
in  Heaven's  good  time,  to  make  room  for  these.  We  talked 
but  little ;  our  hearts  were  too  full.  Early,  before  any 
body  thought  of  moving,  John  carried  his  wife  up-stairs 
again,  saying  that,  well  as  she  looked,  she  must  be  compelled 
to  economize  both  her  good  looks  and  her  happiness. 

When  he  came  down  again,  he  stood  talking  for  some 
time  with  Mr.   Ravenel.     While  he  talked,    I  thought   he 


528  JOH]Sr   HALIFAX. 

looked  wearied — pallid  even  to  .exhaustion  ;  ^  minute  oi 
two  afterward  he  silently  left  the  room. 

I  followed  him,  and  found  him  leaning  against  the  chim- 
ney-piece in  his  study. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "     He  spoke  feebly  ;  he  looked — ghastly. 

I  called  him  by  his  name. 

"  Come  in.     Fetch  no  one.     Shut  the  door." 

The  words  were  hoarse  and  abrupt,  and  I  obeyed. 

"  Phineas,"  he  said,  again  holding  out  a  hand,  as  if  he 
thought  he  had  grieved  me  ;  "  don't  mind.  I  shall  be 
better  presently.  I  know  quite  well  what  it  is — oh,  my 
G  od— my  God  ! " 

Sharp,  horrible  pain— such  as  human  nature  shrinks  from 
— such  as  makes  poor  mortal  flesh  cry  out  in  its  agony  to 
its  Maker,  as  if,  for  the  time  being,  life  itself  were  worth- 
less at  such  a  price.  I  know  now  what  it  must  have  been  ; 
I  know  now  what  he  must  have  endured. 

He  held  me  fast,  half  unconscious  as  he  was,  lest  I  should 
summon  help  ;  and  when  a  step  was  heard  in  the  passage, 
as  once  before — the  day  Edwin  was  married — how,  on  a 
sudden,  I  remembered  all  ! — he  tottered  forward  and  locked, 
double  locked  the  door. 

After  a  few  minutes  the  worst  suffering  apparently  abated, 
and  he  sat  down  again  in  his  chair.  I  got  some  water  ;  he 
drank,  and  let  me  bathe  his  face  with  it — his  face,  grey  and 
death-like — John's  face  ! 

But  I  am  telling  the  bare  facts — nothing  more. 

A  few  heavy  sighs,  gasped  as  it  were  for  life,  and  he  was 
himself  again. 

"Thank  God,  it  is  over  now  !  Phineas,  you  must  try  and 
forget  all  you  have  seen.  I  wish  you  had  not  come  to  the 
ioor." 

He  said  this,  not  in  any  tone  that  could  wound  me,  but 
tenderly,  as  if  he  were  very  sorry  for  me. 

"What  is  it?" 

*'  There  is  no  need  for  alarm  ; — no  more  than  that  day 
— you  recollect  ? — in  this  room.  I  had  an  attack  once 
before  then — a  few  times  since.  It  is  horrible  pain  while 
it  lasts,  you  see  ;  1  can  hardly  bear  it.     But  it  goes  away 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  529 

again,  as  you  also  see.  It  would  1)o  a  pity  to  tell  my  wife, 
or  anybody ;  in  fact,  I  had  rather  not.  You  under- 
stand ! " 

He  B^Doke  thus  in  a  matter-of-fact  Avay,  as  if  he  thought 
the  explanation  would  satisfy  me,  and  prevent  my  asking 
further.     He  was  mistaken. 

''John,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  What  is  it  ?  Why,  something  like  what  I  had  then, 
but  it  comes  rarely,  and  I  am  well  again  directly.  I  had 
much  rather  not  talk  about  it.     Pray,  forget  it." 

But  I  could  not ;  nor,  I  thought,  could  he.  He  took  up 
a  book  and  sat  still ;  though  oftentimes  I  caiTght  his  eyes 
fixed  on  my  face  with  a  peculiar  earnestness,  as  if  he  would 
fain  test  my  strength — fain  find  out  how  much  I  loved 
him  ;  and  loving,  how  much  I  could  bear. 

"You  are  not  reading,  John  ;  you  are  thinking — wliat 
about  ?  " 

He  paused  a  little,  as  if  undetermined  whether  or  not 
to  tell  me  ;  then  said:  '"About  your  father.  Do  you  re- 
member him  ?  " 

I  looked  surprised  at  the  question. 

"  I  mean,  do  you  remember  how  he  died  ?" 

Somehow — though,  God  knows,  not  at  that  dear  and 
sacred  remembrance — I  shuddered.  "  Yes  ;  but  why 
should  we  talk  of  it  now  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  I  have  often  thought  what  a  happy  death 
it  was — painless,  instantaneous,  without  any  wasting  sick- 
ness beforehand — his  sudden  passing  from  life  present  to 
life  eternal,  Phineas,  your  father's  was  the  happiest  death 
I  ever  knew." 

"It  maybe — I  am  not  sure, — John,"  for  again  some- 
thing in  his  look  and  manner  struck  me — "why  do  you 
say  this  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  scarcely  know. — Yes,  I  do  know." 

"Tell  mo  then." 

He  looked  at  me  across  the  table — steadily,  eye  to  eye,  as 
if  he  would  fain  impart  to  my  spirit  the  calmness  that  was 
in  his  own.     "  I  believe,   Phineas,  that  when  I  die,  my 
death  will  be  not  unlike  your  father's." 
34 


530  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

Something  came  wildly  to  my  lips  about  "'  impossibility/' 
the  utter  impossibility,  of  any  man's  thus  settling  the 
manner  of  his  death,  or  the  time. 

"I  know  that.  I  know  that  I  may  live  ten  or  twenty 
years,  and  die  of  another  disease  after  all." 

"Disease  !" 

"■Nay — it  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  You  see  I  am  not 
afraid.  I  have  guessed  it  for  many  years.  I  have  known 
it  for  a  certainty  ever  since  I  was  in  Paris." 

"'  Were  you  ill  in  Paris  ? — You  never  said  so." 

"  No — because — Phineas,  do  you  think  you  could  bear 
the  truth  ?  Y'ou  know  it  makes  no  real  difference.  I  shall 
not  die  an  hour  sooner  for  being  aware  of  it." 

"Aware  of — what  ?     Say  quickly." 

"Dr.  K told  me — I  was  determined  to  be  told — that 

I  had  the  disease  I  susjiected  :  beyond  medical  jjower  to 
cure.  It  is  not  immediately  fatal  ;  he  said  I  might  live 
many  years^  even  to  old  age  ;  and  I  might  die,  suddenly, 
at  any  moment,  just  as  your  father  died." 

He  said  this  gently  and  quietly — more  quietly  than 
I  am  writing  the  words  down  now  ;  and  I  listened — I 
listened. 

"  Phineas  !  " 

I  felt  the  pressure  of  his  warm  hand  on  my  shoulder— 
the  hand  which  had  led  me  like  a  brother's  all  my  life. 

"  Phineas,  we  have  known  one  another  these  forty  years. 
Is  our  love,  our  faith,  so  small,  that  either  of  us,  for  him- 
self or  his  brother,  need  be  afraid  of  death  ? — " 

"  Phineas  !" — and  the  second  time  he  spoke  there  was 
some  faint  rejiroach  in  the  tone  ;  "  no  one  knows  this  but 
you.  I  see  I  was  right  to  hesitate  ;  I  almost  wisli  I  had 
not  told  you  at  all. " 

Then — I  rose.  ***** 

At  my  urgent  request,  he  explained  to  me  fully  and 
clearly  the  whole  truth.  It  was,  as  most  truths  are,  less 
terrible  when  wholly  known.  It  had  involved  little  suffer- 
ing as  yet,  the  paroxysms  being  few  and  rare.  They  had 
always  occurred  when  he  was  alone,  or  when  feeling  them 
coming  on,  he  could  go  away  and  bear  them  in  solitude. 


.TOHl^r   HALIFAX.  531 

'^'^  I  have  always  been  able  to  do  so  until  to-uight.  She 
has  not  the  least  idea — my  wife,  I  mean/* 

His  voice  failed. 

"  It  has  been  terrible  to  me  at  times,  the  thought  of  my 
wife.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  her.  Often  I  resolved 
I  would,  and  then  changed  my  mind.  Latterly,  since  she 
has  been  ill,  I  have  believed,  almost  hoped,  that  she  would 
not  need  to  be  told  at  all." 

"  Would  you  rather,  then,  that  she " 

John  calmly  took  up  the  word  I  shrank  from  uttering. 
"  Yes  ;  I  would  rather  of  the  two  that  she  went  away  first. 
She  would  suffer  less,  and  it  would  be  such  a  short  parting.'" 

He  spoke  as  one  would  speak  of  a  new  abode,  an  impend- 
ing journey.  To  him  the  great  change,  the  last  terror  of 
humanity,  was  a  thought — solemn  indeed,  but  long  fami- 
liar and.  altogether  without  fear.  And,  as  we  sat  there, 
something  of  his  spirit  passed  into  mine  :  I  felt  how  narrow 
is  the  span  between  the  life  mortal  and  the  life  immortal — 
how,  in  truth,  both  are  one  with  God. 

"Ay,"  he  said,  ''that  is  exactly  what  1  mean.  To  me 
there  is  always  something  impious  in  the  "^preparing  for 
death'  that  people  talk  about;  as  if  we  were  not  con- 
tinually, whether  in  the  flesh  or  out  of  it,  living  in  the 
Father's  presence ;  as  if,  come  when  He  will,  the  Master 
should  not  find  all  of  us  watching.  Do  you  remember  say- 
ing so  to  me,  one  day  ?  " 

Ah,  that  day  ! 

"  Does  it  pain  you,  my  talking  thus  ?  Because  if  so,  we 
will  cease." 

"  No — go  on." 

"  That  is  right.  I  thought,  this  attack  having  been  some- 
what worse  than  my  last,  some  one  ought  to  be  told.  It 
has  been  a  comfort  to  me  to  tell  you — a  great  comfort, 
Phineas.     Always  remember  that.'' 

I  have  remembered  it. 

''■  Now  one  thing  more,  and  my  mind  is  at  ease.  You 
see,  though  I  may  have  years  of  life — I  hope  I  shall — many 
busy  years — I  am  never  sure  of  a  day,  and  I  have  to  take 
many  precautions.     At  home  I  shall  be  quite  safe  now," 


532  JOHN   HALIFAX. 

He  smiled  again,  with  evident  relief.  "And  I  rarely  go 
anywhere  without  having  one  of  my  boys  with  me.  Still 
for  fear — look  here." 

He  showed  me  his  pocket-book  ;  on  a  card  bearing  his 
name   and  address,  was  written  in  his  own  legible  hand 

"Himie,  and  tell  my  wife,  carefully." 

1  returned  the  book.  As  I  did  so,  there  dropped  out  a 
little  note — all  yellow  and  faded — his  wife's  only  "love- 
letter," — signed,  "Yours  sincerely,  Ursula  March." 

John  picked  it  up,  looked  at  it,  and  put  it  back  in  its 
place. 

"  Poor  darling  !  poor  darling  ! "  He  sighed,  and  was 
silent  for  a  while.  "  I  am  very  glad  Guy  has  come  home  ! 
very  glad  that  my  little  Maud  is  so  happily  settled — Hark, 
how  those  children  are  laugliing  !  " 

For  the  moment  a  natural  shade  of  regret  crossed  the 
father's  face,  the  father  to  whom  all  the  delights  of  home 
had  been  so  dear.     But  it  soon  vanished. 

"  How  merry  they  are  ! — how  strangely  things  have  come 
about  for  us  and  ours  !  As  Ursula  was  saying  to-night,  at 
this  moment  wc  have  not  a  single  care." 

I  grasped  at  that,  for  Dr.  K had  declared  that  if  John 

had  a  quiet  life,— a  life  without  any  anxieties, — he  might, 
humanly  speaking,  attain  a  good  old  age. 

"  Ay,  your  father  did.  Who  knows  ?  we  may  both  be 
old  men  yet,  Phineas." 

And  as  he  rose,  he  looked  strong  in  body  and  mind,  full 
of  health  and  cheer — scarcely  even  on  the  verge  of  that  old 
age  of  which  he  spoke.     And  I  was  older  than  he. 

"  Now  will  you  come  with  me  to  say  good-night  to  the 
children  ?  " 

At  first  I  thought  I  could  not — then,  I  could.  After  the 
rest  had  merrily  dispersed,  John  and  I  stood  for  a  long 
time  in  the  empty  parlor,  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  as  he 
used  to  stand  when  we  were  boys,  talking. 

What  we  said  I  shall  not  write,  but  I  remember  it  every 
vord.     And  he — I  Icnoiu  he  remembers  it  still. 

Then  we  clasped  hands. 

"  Good-night,  Phineas." 

"'  Good-night,  John." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Friday,  the  first  of  August,  1834. 

Many  may  remembei*  tliat  day  ;  what  a  soft,  grey,  sum- 
mer morning  it  was,  and  how  it  broke  out  into  briglitness  ; 
how  everywhere  bells  were  ringing,  club  fraternities  walk- 
ing with  bands  and  banners,  school  children  having  leasts 
and  work-people  holidays  ;  how,  in  town  and  country,  there 
was  spread  abroad  a  general  sense  of  benevolent  rejoicing — 
because  honest  old  England  had  lifted  up  her  generous  voice, 
nay,  had  paid  down  cheerfully  her  twenty  millions,  and  in 
all  her  colonies  the  negro  was  free. 

Many  may  still  find,  in  some  forgotten  drawer,  the 
medal — bought  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands,  of  all 
classes,  in  copper,  silver,  or  gold — distributed  in  charity- 
schools,  and  given  by  old  people  to  their  grandchildren. 
I  saw  Mrs.  Halifax  tying  one  with  a  piece  of  blue  ribbon 
round  little  Louise's  neck,  in  remembrance  of  this  day. 
The  pretty  medal,  with  the  slave  standing  upright,  stretch- 
ing out  to  heaven  free  hands,  from  which  the  fetters  are 
dropping — as  I  overheard  John  say  to  his  wife,  he  could 
fancy  the  freeman  Paul  would  stand  in  the  Roman  prison, 
when  he  answered  to  those  that  loved  him,  "Ihavefovglii 
the  good  Jiglit.  1  have  finished  my  course.  1  have  kept 
the  faith." 

Now,  with  my  quickened  ears,  I  often  heard  John  talk- 
ing quietly  to  his  wife  on  this  wise. 

He  remained  by  her  side  the  whole  forenoon — wheeling 
her  about  in  her  garden  chair  ;  taking  her  to  see  her  school- 
children in  their  glory  on  our  lawn — to  hear  the  shouts 
rising  up  from  the  people  at  the  mill-yard  below.  For 
all  Enderley,  following  the  master's  example,  took  an  iu- 

533 


534  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

terest,  hearty  even  among  hearty  hard-working  England,  in 
the  Emancipation  of  the  Slaves. 

We  had  our  own  young  people  round  us,  and  the  day 
was  a  glorious  day,  they  declared  one  and  all. 

John  was  happy  too — infinitely  happy.  After  dinner, 
he  carried  his  wife  to  her  chair  beside  the  weeping  ash, 
where  she  could  smell  the  late  hay  in  the  meadow,  and 
hear  the  ripple  of  the  stream  in  the  beech-wood— faint,  for 
it  Avas  almost  dried  up  now,  but  pleasant  still.  Her  hus- 
band sat  on  the  grass,  making  her  laugh  with  his  quaint 
sayings — admiring  her  in  her  new  bonnet,  and  in  the  lovely 
white  shawl — Guy's  shawl — which  Mr.  Guy  himself  had 
really  no  time  for  admiring.  He  had  gone  off  to  the  school 
tea-drinking,  escorting  his  sister  and  sister-in-law,  and 
another  lady,  whose  eyes  brightened  witli  most  "sisterly" 
joy  whenever  she  glanced  at  her  old  playfellow.  Guy's 
"sister  "she  nevertheless  was  not,  nor  Av^as  ever  likely  to 
be — and  I  questioned  whether,  in  his  secret  heart,  he  had 
not  begun  already  to  feel  particularly  thankful  for  that 
circumstance. 

"Ah,  mother,"  cried  the  father,  smiling,  "you'll  see 
how  it  will  end  :  all  our  young  birds  will  soon  be  flown — 
there  will  be  nobody  but  you  and  me." 

"Never  mind,  John  ;  "  and  stooping  over  him,  she  gave 
him  one  of  her  quiet,  soft  kisses,  precious  now  she  was  an 
old  woman  as  they  had  been  in  the  days  of  her  bloom. 
"Never  mind.  Once  there  were  only  our  two  selves — now 
there  will  be  only  our  two  selves  again.  We  shall  be  very 
happy.     We  only  need  one  anotlier." 

"  Only  one  another,  my  darling." 

This  last  word,  and  the  manner  of  his  saying  it  I  can 
hear  if  I  listen  in  silence,  clear  as  if  yet  I  heard  its  sound. 
This  last  sight — of  them  sitting  under  the  ash-tree,  the  sun 
making  still  whiter  Ursula's  white  shawl,  brightening  the 
marriage  ring  on  her  bare  hand,  and  throwing,  instead  of 
silver,  some  of  their  boyish  gold-color  into  the  edges  of 
John's  curls — this  picture  I  see  with  my  shut  eyes,  vivid 
as  yesterday. 

I  sat  for  some  time  in  my  room — then  John  came    to 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  535 

fetch  me  for  our  customary  walk  along  liis  favorite 
"  terrace"  on  the  Flat.  He  rarely  liked  to  miss  it  ;— he 
said  the  day  hardly  seemed  complete  or  perfect  unless  one 
had  seen  the  sun  set.  Thus,  almost  every  evening,  we 
used  to  spend  an  hour  or  more,  pacing  up  and  down,  or 
sitting  hi  that  little  hollow  under  the  bow  of  the  Flat, 
where  as  from  the  topmost  seat  of  a  natural  amphitheatre, 
one  could  see  Kose  Cottage  and  the  old  well-head  where  the 
cattle  drank  ;  our  own  green  garden-gate,  the  dark  mass 
of  the  beech-wood,  and  far  away  beyond  that,  Nunneley 
Hill,  where  the  sun  went  down. 

There,  having  walked  somewhat  less  time  than  usual,  for 
the  evening  was  warm  and  it  had  been  a  fatiguing  day, 
John  and  I  sat  down  together.  We  talked  a  little,  ram- 
blingly — chiefly  of  Longfield  : — how  I  was  to  have  my  old 
room  again — and  how  a  new  nursery  Avas  to  be  planned  for 
the  grandchildren. 

"We  can't  get  out  of  the  way  of  children,  I  see  clearly,"' 
he  said,  laughing.  "  We  shall  have  Longfield  just  as  full 
as  ever  it  was,  all  summer  time.  But  in  winter  we'll  be 
quiet,  and  sit  by  the  chimney-corner,  and  plunge  into  my 
dusty  desert  of  books — eh,  Phineas  ?  You  shall  help  me 
to  make  notes  for  those  lectures  I  have  intended  giving  at 
Norton  Bury,  these  ten  years  past.  And  we'll  rul)  up  our 
old  Latin,  and  dip  into  modern  poetry — great  rubbish,  I 
fear  !  Nobody  like  out'  old  friend  Will  of  Avon,  or  even  your 
namesake,  worthy  Phineas  Fletcher." 

I  reminded  him  of  the  "  Shepherd's  life  and  fate,"  which 
he  always  liked  so  much,  and  used  to  say  was  his  ideal  of 
peaceful  happiness. 

"Well,  and  I  think  so  still.  'Keep  true  to  the  dreams 
of  thy  youth,'  saith  the  old  German  ;  I  have  not  been  false 
to  mine.  1  have  had  a  happy  life,  thank  God  ;  ay,  and 
what  few  men  can  say,  it  has  been  the  very  sort  of  happi- 
ness I  myself  would  have  chosen.  I  think  most  lives,  if, 
while  faithfully  doing  our  little  best,  day  by  day,  we  were 
content  to  leave  their  thread  in  wiser  hands  than  ours, 
would  thus  weave  themselves  out ;  until,  looked  back  upoE 
as  a  whole,  they  would  seem  as  bright  a  web  as  mine." 


536  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

He  sat,  talking  thus,  resting  his  cliin  on  his  hands — his 
eyes,  cahii  and  sweet,  looking  out  westward — where  the  sun 
was  about  an  hour  from  the  horizon. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  lie  on  the  grass  in 
your  father's  garden,  and  how  we  never  could  catch  the 
sunset  except  in  fragments  between  the  abbey  trees  ?  I 
wonder  if  they  keep  the  yew-hedge  clipped  as  round  as 
ever." 

I  told  him,  Edwin  had  said  to-day  that  some  strange 
tenants  were  going  to  make  an  inn  of  the  old  house,  and 
turn  the  lawn  into  a  bowling-green. 

"'What  a  shame  !  I  wish  I  could  prevent  it.  And  yet, 
perhaps  not,"  he  added,  after  a  silence.  "  Ought  we  not 
rather  to  recognize  and  submit  to  the  universal  law  of 
change  ?  how  each  in  his  place  is  fulfilling  his  day.  and 
passing  away,  just  as  that  sun  is  passing.  Only  we  know 
not  whither  he  passes  ;  while  whither  we  go  we  know,  and 
the  Way  we  know — the  same  yesterday,   to-day,  and  for 


ever." 


Almost  before  he  had  done  sjjeaking — (God  grant  that 
in  the  Kingdom  I  may  hear  that  voice,  not  a  tone  altered 
— I  would  not  wish  it  altered  even  there) — a  whole  troo]) 
of  our  young  people  came  out  of  Mrs.  Tod's  cottage,  and 
nodded  to  us  from  below. 

There  was  Mrs.  Edwin,  standing  talking  to  the  good 
old  soul,  who  admired  her  baby-boy  very  much,  but  wouldn't 
allow  there  could  be  any  children  like  Mrs.  Halifax's 
children. 

There  was  Edwin,  deep  in  converse  with  his  brother  Guy, 
while  beside  them — prettier  and  younger-looking  than  ever 
— Grace  Oldtower  was  making  a  posy  for  little  Louise. 

Further  down  the  slope,  walking  slowly,  side  by  side, 
evidently  seeing  nobody  but  one  another,  were  another 
couple. 

"  1  think,  sometimes,  John,  that  those  two,  William  and 
Maud,  will  be  the  luqipiest  of  all  the  children." 

He  smiled,  looked  after  them  for  a  minute,  and  then  laid 
himself  quietly  down  on  his  back  along  the  slope,  his  eyes 
still  directed  towards  the  sunset.     When,  brightening  as  it 


JOHN   HALIFAX.  537 

descended,  the  sun  shone  level  upon  the  place  where  we 
were  sitting,  I  saw  John  pull  his  broad  straw  hat  over  his 
face,  and  compose  himself  with  both  hands  clasped  upon 
his  breast,  in  the  attitude  of  sleeii. 

I  knew  he  was  very  tired,  so  1  spoke  no  more,  but  tlirew 
my  cloak  over  him.  He  looked  up,  thanked  me  silently, 
with  his  old  familiar  smile. — One  day — one  day  I  shall 
know  him  by  that  smile  !  1  sat  for  half  an  hour  or  more 
watching  the  sun,  which  sank  steadily,  slowly,  round,  and 
red,  without  a  single  cloud.  Beautiful,  as  I  had  never 
before  seen  it  ;  so  clear,  that  one  could  note  the  very  in- 
stant its  disc  touclied  the  horizon's  grey. 

Maud  and  Mr.  Ravenel  were  coming  up  the  slope.  I 
beckoned  them  to  come  softly,  not  to  disturb  the  father. 
They  and  I  sat  in  silence,  facing  the  west.  The  sun  jour- 
neyed down  to  his  setting — lower — lower  ;  there  was  a 
crescent,  a  line,  a  dim  sparkle  of  light  ;  then — he  was  gone. 
And  still  we  sat — grave,  but  not  sad — looking  into  the 
brightness  he  had  left  behind  ;  believing,  yea,  knowing,  we 
should  see  his  glorious  face  again  to-morrow. 

'•'How  cold  it  has  grown,"  said  Maud.  "I  think  we 
ought  to  wake  my  father." 

She  went  up  to  him,  laid  her  hand  upon  his,  that  were 
folded  together  over  the  cloak — drew  back  startled — ■ 
alarmed. 

"Father  !" 

I  put  the  child  aside.  It  was  I  who  moved  the  hat  from 
John's  face — the  face — for  John  himself  was  far,  far  away. 
Gone  from  us  unto  Him  whose  faithful  servant  he  was. 
While  he  was  sleeping  thus,  the  Master  had  called  him. 

His  two  sons  carried  him  down  the  slope.  They  laid  him 
in  the  upper  room  in  Mrs.  Tod's  cottage.  Then  I  went 
home  to  tell  his  wife. 


■  She  was  at  last  composed,  as  we  thought,  lying  on  her 
bed,  death-like  almost, 'but  calm.  It  was  ten  o'clock  at 
night.     I  left  her  with  all  her  children  Watching  round  her. 

I  went  out,  up  to  Rose  Cottage,  to  sit  an  hour  by  myself 


538  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

alone,  looking  at  liim  whom  I  should  not  see  again  for — as 
he  had  said — "  a  little  while." 

"A  little  while — a  little  while."  I  comforted  myself 
with  those  words.  I  fancied  I  could  almost  hear  John  say- 
ing them,  standing  near  me,  with  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
— John  himself,  quite  distinct  from  that  which  lay  so  still 
before  me  ;  beautiful  as  nothing  but  death  can  be,  younger 
much  than  he  had  looked  this  very  morning — younger  by 
twenty  years. 

Farewell,  John  !  Farewell,  my  more  than  brother  !  It 
is  but  for  a  little  while. 

As  I  sat,  thinking  how  peacefully  the  hands  lay,  clasj)ed 
together  still,  how  sweet  was  tlie  expression  of  the  close 
mouth,  and  what  a  strange  shadowy  likeness  the  whole  face 
bore  to  ^Muriel's  little  face,  which  I  had  seen  resting  in  the 
same  deep  rest  on  the  same  pillow  ;  some  one  touched  me. 
It  was  Mrs.  Halifax. 

How  she  came  I  do  not  know  ;  nor  how  she  had  managed 
to  steal  out  from  among  her  children.  Xor  how  she,  who 
had  not  walked  for  weeks,  had  found  her  way  uj:)  hither,  in 
the  dark,  all  alone.  Nor  what  strength,  almost  more  than 
mortal,  helped  her  to  stand  there,  as  she  did  stand,  up- 
right and  calm — gazing — gazing  as  I  had  done. 

"  It  is  very  like  him  ;  don't  you  think  so,  Phineas  ?  " 
The  voice  low  and  soft,  unbroken  by  any  sob.  "  He  once 
told  me,  in  case  of — this,  he  would  rather  I  did  not  come 
and  look  at  him  ;  but  I  can,  you  see." 

I  gave  her  my  place,  and  she  sat  down  by  the  bed.  It 
mio;ht  have  been  ten  minutes  or  more  that  she  and  I  re- 
mained  thus,  without  exchanging  a  word. 

"I  think  I  hear  some  one  at  the  door.  Brother,  will 
you  call  in  the  children  ?  " 

Guy,  altogether  overcome,  knelt  down  beside  his  mother, 
and  besought  her  to  let  him  take  her  home. 

"Presently — presently,  my  son.  You  are  very  good  to 
me  ;  but — your  father.  Children,  come  in  and  look  .at 
your  father." 

They  all  gathered  round  her — weeping ;  but  she  spoke 
without  a  single  tear. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.  539 

"  I  was  a  girl,  younger  than  any  of  yon,  when  first  I  met 
your  father.  Next  month,  we  sliall  liave  been  married 
tliirty-three  years.     Thirty-tliree  years." 

Her  eyes  grew  dreamy,  as  if  fancy  had  led  her  back  all 
that  space  of  time  ;  her  lingers  moved  to  and  fro,  mechani- 
cally, over  her  wedding-ring. 

"  Children,  we  were  so  happy,  you  cannot  tell.  He  was 
so  good  ;  he  loved  me  so.  Better  than  that,  he  made  me 
good  ;  that  was  why  I  loved  him.  Oh.  wliat  Ids  love  was  to 
me  from  tlic  first  !  strength,  hope,  })earc  ;  comfort  and 
help  in  trouble,  sweetness  in  prosperity.  How  my  life  be- 
came happy  and  complete — how  I  grcAV  Avortliier  to  myself 
because  he  had  taken  me  for  his  own  !  And  what  lie  was 
— Children,  no  one  l)ut  me  ever  knew  all  his  goodness,  no 
one  but  himself  ever  knew  how  dearly  I  loved  your  father. 
We  were  more  precious  each  to  each  than  anything  on  earth  ; 
except  His  service,  who  gaye  ns  to  one  another." 

Her  voice  dropped  all  but  inaudiblp  ;  but  she  roused  her- 
self, and  made  it  once  more  clear  and  firm,  the  mother's 
natural  voice. 

"  Guy,  Edwin,  all  of  you,  must  never  forget  your  father. 
You  must  do  as  he  wishes,  and  live  as  he  lived — in  all  ways. 
You  must  love  him,  and  love  one  another.  Children,  you 
will  never  do  anything  that  need  make  you  ashamed  to 
meet  your  father." 

As  they  hung  round  her,  she  kissed  them  all — her  three 
sons  and  her  daughter,  one  by  one  ;  then,  her  mind  being 
perhaps  led  astray  by  the  room  we  were  in,  looked  feebly 
round  for  one  more  child — remembered — smiled— 

"How  glad  her  father  will  be  to  have  her  again — his  own 
little  Muriel." 

"  Mother  !  mother  darling  !  come  home,"  whispered 
Guy,  almost  in  sobs. 

His  mother  stooped  over  him,  gave  him  one  kiss  more 
— him  her  favorite  of  all  her  children — and  repeated  the 
old  phrase, 

"  Presently,  presently  !  Now  go  away  all  of  you  ;  I 
want  to  be  left  for  a  little,  alone  with  my  husband." 

As  we  went  out,  I  saw  her  turn  toward  the  bed — "John, 


540  JOHN    HALIFAX. 

John  ! " — The  same  tone  ;  almost  the  same  words  with 
which  she  had  crept  np  to  him  years  before,  the  day  they 
were  betrothed.  Just  a  low,  low  murmur,  like  a  tired 
child  creeping  to  fond  protecting  arms.     ''John,  John  I" 

We  closed  the  door.  We  all  sat  on  the  stairs  outside  ;  it 
might  have  been  for  minutes,  it  might  have  been  for  hours. 
Within  or  without — no  one  spoke — nothing  stirred. 

At  last  Guy  softly  went  in. 

She  was  still  in  the  same  place  by  the  bed-side,  but  half 
lying  on  the  bed,  as  I  had  seen  her  turn  when  I  was  shut- 
ting the  door.  Her  arm  was  round  her  husband's  neck  ; 
her  face,  pressed  inwards  to  the  pillow,  was  nestled  close  to 
liis  hair.     They  might  have  been  asleep — both  of  them. 

One  of  her  children  called  her,  but  she  neitlier  answered 
nor  stirred. 

Guy  lifted  her  up,  very  tenderly  ;  his  mother,  who  had 
no  stay  left  but  him — his  mother — a  widow — 

No,  thank  God  !  she  was  not  a  widow  now. 


THE    E:i!iD. 


